“Talk no more of love to me, Eric,” she answered; “the blood of Bjoern has blotted out our love:  it cries to me for vengeance.  How may I speak of love with him who slew my brother?  Listen!” she went on, looking on him sidelong, as one who wished to look and yet not seem to see:  “here thou must hide an hour, and, since thou wilt not sit in silence, speak no tender words to me, for it is not fitting; but tell me of those deeds thou didst in the south lands over sea, before thou wentest to woo Swanhild and camest hither to kill my brother.  For till then thou wast mine—­till then I loved thee—­who now love thee not.  Therefore I would hear of the deeds of that Eric whom once I loved, before he became as one dead to me.”

“Heavy words, lady,” said Eric—­“words to make death easy.”

“Speak not so,” she said; “it is unmanly thus to work upon my fears.  Tell me those tidings of which I ask.”

So Eric told her all his deeds, though he showed small boastfulness about them.  He told her how he had smitten the war-dragons of Ospakar, how he had boarded the Raven and with Skallagrim slain those who sailed in her.  He told her also of his deeds in Ireland, and of how he took the viking ships and came to London town.

And as he told, Gudruda listened as one who hung upon her lover’s dying words, and there was but one light in the world for her, the light of Eric’s eyes, and there was but one music, the music of his voice.  Now she looked upon him sidelong no longer, but with open eyes and parted lips she drank in his words, and always, though she knew it not herself, she crept closer to his side.

Then he told her how he had been greatly honoured of the King of England, and of the battles he had fought in at his side.  Lastly, Eric told her how the King would have given him a certain great lady of royal blood in marriage, and how Edmund had been angered because he would not stay in England.

“Tell me of this lady,” said Gudruda, quickly.  “Is she fair, and how is she named?”

“She is fair, and her name is Elfrida,” said Eric.

“And didst thou have speech with her on this matter?”

“Somewhat.”

Now Gudruda drew herself away from Eric’s side.

“What was the purport of thy speech?” she said, looking down.  “Speak truly, Eric.”

“It came to little,” he answered.  “I told her that there was one in Iceland to whom I was betrothed, and to Iceland I must go.”

“And what said this Elfrida, then?”

“She said that I should get little luck at the hands of Gudruda the Fair.  Moreover, she asked, should my betrothed be faithless to me, or put me from her, if I should come again to England.”

Now Gudruda looked him in the face and spoke.  “Say, Eric, is it in thy mind to sail for England in the spring, if thou canst escape thy foes so long?”

Now Eric took counsel with himself, and in his love and doubt grew guileful as he had never been before.  For he knew well that Gudruda had this weakness—­she was a jealous woman.