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Eric was bleeding at the brow, and bloody was the hooked nose of Skallagrim, before they came to where Whitefire was. At length they reached the sword, and pushed aside the bucklers that were over it with their heads. The great war-blade was sheathed, and Eric must needs lie upon his breast and draw the weapon somewhat with his teeth.
With the same war-blade on which Eric and Gudruda had pledged their troth, did Swanhild cut the locks that Eric had sworn no hand should clip except Gudruda's. He took back the sword and sheathed it, and, knotting the long tress, Swanhild hid it in her bosom. "Now drink the cup, Eric," she said "pledge me and go."
Then he grasped Whitefire and drew it from the scabbard, and high aloft flashed the war-blade. Thrice he wheeled it round his head, then sang aloud: "Fast, yestermorn, down Golden Falls, Fared young Eric to thy feast, Asmund, father of Gudruda Maid whom much he longs to clasp.
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