frozen to him.  On the morrow the hair was caked so fast about his neck that it could only be freed by shearing it.  But this Eric would not suffer.  None, he said, should shear his hair, except Gudruda.  Thus he had sworn, and when he broke the oath misfortune had come of it.  He would break that vow no more, if it cost him his life.  For sorrow and his ill luck had taken so great a hold of Eric’s mind that in some ways he was scarcely himself.

So it came to pass that he fell more and more sick, till at length he could not rise from his bed in the cave, but lay there all day and night, staring at the little light which pierced the gloom.  Still, he would not suffer that anyone should touch his hair.  And when one stole upon him sleeping, thinking so to cut it before he woke, and come at the wound, suddenly he sat up and dealt the man such a buffet on the head that he went near to death from it.

Then Skallagrim spoke.

“On this matter,” he said, “it seems that Brighteyes is mad.  He will not suffer that any touch his hair, except Gudruda, and yet, if his hair is not shorn, he must die, for the wound will fester under it.  Nor may we cut it by strength, for then he will kill himself in struggling.  It is come to this then:  either Gudruda must be brought hither or Eric will shortly die.”

“That may not be,” they answered.  “How can the lady Gudruda come here across the snows, even if she will come?”

“Come she can, if she has the heart,” said Skallagrim, “though I put little trust in women’s hearts.  Still, I ride down to Middalhof, and thou, Jon, shalt go with me.  For the rest, I charge you watch your lord; for, if I come back and find anything amiss, that shall be the death of some, and if I do not come back but perish on the road, yet I will haunt you.”

Now Jon liked not this task; still, for love of Eric and fear of Skallagrim, he set out with the Baresark.  They had a hard journey through the snow-drifts and the dark, but on the third day they came to Middalhof, knocked upon the door and entered.

Now it was supper-time, and people, sitting at meat, saw a great black man, covered with snow and rime, stalk up the hall, and after him another smaller man, who groaned with the cold, and they wondered at the sight.  Gudruda sat on the high seat and the firelight beat upon her face.

“Who comes here?” she said.

“One who would speak with thee, lady,” answered Skallagrim.

“Here is Skallagrim the Baresark,” said a man.  “He is an outlaw, let us kill him!”

“Ay, it is Skallagrim,” he answered, “and if there is killing to be done, why here’s that which shall do it,” and he drew out his axe and smiled grimly.

Then all held their peace, for they feared the axe of Skallagrim.

“Lady,” he said, “I do not come for slaying or such child’s play, I come to speak a word in thine ear—­but first I ask a cup of mead and a morsel of food, for we have spent three days in the snows.”