The door is won.  They stand without but little harmed, while women wail aloud.

“To horse!” cried Skallagrim; “to horse, ere our luck fail us!”

“There is no luck in this,” gasped Eric; “for I have slain many men, and among them is Bjoern, the brother of her whom I would make my bride.”

“Better one such fight than many brides,” said Skallagrim, shaking his red axe.  “We have won great glory this day, Brighteyes, and Ospakar is dead—­slain by a swordless man!”

Now Eric and Skallagrim ran to their horses, none hindering them, and, mounting, rode towards Mosfell.

All that evening and all the night they rode, and at morning they came across the black sand to Mosfell slopes that are by the Hecla.  Here they rested, and, taking off their armour, washed themselves in the stream:  for they were very weary and foul with blood and wounds.  When they had finished washing and had buckled on their harness again, Skallagrim, peering across the plain with his hawk’s eyes, saw men riding fast towards them.

“Foes are soon afoot, lord,” he said.  “I thought we had stayed their hunger for a while.”

“Would that I might stay mine,” quoth Eric.  “I am weary, and unfit for fight.”

“I have still strength for one or two,” said Skallagrim, “and then good-night!  But these are no foes.  They are of the Coldback folk.  The carline has kept her word.”

Then Eric was glad, and presently six men, headed by Jon his thrall, the same man who had watched on Mosfell when Eric went up to slay the Baresark, rode to them and greeted them.  “Beggar women,” said Jon, “whom they met at Ran River, had told them of the death of Ospakar, and of the great slaying at Middalhof, and they would know if the tidings were true.”

“It is true, Jon,” said Eric; “but first give us food, if ye have it, for we are hungered and spent.  When we have eaten we will speak.”

So they led up a pack-horse and from it took stockfish and smoked meat, of which Eric and Skallagrim ate heartily, till their strength came back to them.

Then Eric spoke.  “Comrades,” he said, “I am an outlawed man, and, though I have not sought it, much blood is on my head.  Atli is dead at my hand; Ospakar is dead at my hand; Bjoern the Priest, Asmund’s son, is dead at my hand, and with them many another man.  Nor may the matter stay here, for Gizur, Blacktooth’s son, yet lives, and Bjoern has kin in the south, and Swanhild will buy friends with gold, and all of these will set on me to slay me, so that at the last I die by the sword.”

“No need for that,” said Skallagrim.  “Our vengeance is wrought, and now, as before, the sea is open, and I think that a welcome awaits us in London.”

“Now Gudruda is widowed before she was fully wed,” said Eric, “therefore I bide an outlawed man here in Iceland.  I go hence no more, though it be death to stay, unless indeed Gudruda the Fair goes with me.”