Now of a sudden Eric thought of his friend, Earl Atli, and his mind grew clear.

“This may not be, Swanhild,” he said.  “Yet I would that I had loved thee from the first, and not the false Gudruda:  for, with all thy dark ways, at least thou art better than she.”

“Thou speakest wisely, Eric,” Swanhild answered, though she meant not that he should go.  “The Norns have appointed us an evil fate, giving me as wife to an old man whom I do not love, and thee for a lover to a woman who has betrayed thee.  Ah, Eric Brighteyes, thou foolish Eric! why knewest thou not the false from the true while yet there was time?  Now are all words said and all things done—­nor can they be undone.  Go hence, Eric, ere ill come of it; but, before thou goest, drink one cup of parting, and then farewell.”

And she slipped from him and filled the cup, mixing in it a certain love-portion that she had made ready.

“Give it me that I may swear an oath on it,” said Eric.

Swanhild gave him the cup and stood before him, watching him.

“Hearken,” he said:  “I swear this, that before snow falls again in Iceland I will see Ospakar dead at my feet or lie dead at the feet of Ospakar.”

“Well spoken, Eric,” Swanhild answered.  “Now, before thou drinkest, grant me one little boon.  It is but a woman’s fancy, and thou canst scarce deny me.  The years will be long when thou art gone, for from this night it is best that we should meet no more, and I would keep something of thee to call back thy memory and the memories of our youth when thou hast passed away and I grow old.”

“What wouldst have then, Swanhild?  I have nothing left to give, except Whitefire alone.”

“I do not ask Whitefire, Eric, though Whitefire shall kiss the gift.  I ask nothing but one tress of that golden hair of thine.”

“Once I swore that none should touch my hair again except Gudruda’s self.”

“It will grow long, then, Eric, for now Gudruda tends black locks and thinks little on golden.  Broken are all oaths.”

Eric groaned.  “All oaths are broken in sooth,” he said.  “Have then thy will;” and, loosing the peace-strings, he drew Whitefire from its sheath and gave her the great war-sword.

Swanhild took it by the hilt, and, lifting a tress of Eric’s yellow hair, she shore through it deftly with Whitefire’s razor-edge, smiling as she shore.  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.”

Eric drank to the dregs and cast the cup down, and lo! all things changed to him, for his blood was afire, and seas seemed to roll within his brain.  Only before him stood Swanhild like a shape of light and glory, and he thought that she sang softly over him, always drawing nearer, and that with her came a scent of flowers like the scent of the Iceland meads in May.