Now when Swanhild heard this she laughed aloud.

“Eric shall mock us no more,” she said, “and his might can avail nothing against rocks rolled on him from above.  Let us go back to Coldback and summon men to make an end of Brighteyes.”

So they went on down the mountain till they came to the place where they had hidden their horses.  Then Swanhild remembered Jon and the other man whom she had seen riding to the booth, and she told Gizur of them.

“Now,” she said, “we will snare these birds, and perchance they will twitter tidings when we squeeze them.”

So they turned and rode for the booth, and drawing near, they saw two horses grazing without.  Now they got off their horses, and creeping up to the booth, looked in through the door which was ajar.  And they saw this, that one man sat on the ground with his back to the door, eating stock-fish, while Jon made bundles of fish and meal ready to tie on the horses.  For it was here that those of his quarter who loved Eric brought food to be carried by his men to the cave on Mosfell.

Now Swanhild touched Gizur on the arm, pointing first to the man who sat eating the fish and then to the spear in Gizur’s hand.  Gizur thought a while, for he shrank from this deed.

Then Swanhild whispered in his ear, “Slay the man and seize the other; I would learn tidings from him.”

So Gizur cast the spear, and it passed through the man’s heart, and he was dead at once.  Then he and the thrall leapt into the booth and threw themselves on Jon, hurling him to the ground, and holding swords over him.  Now Jon was a man of small heart, and when he saw his plight and his fellow dead he was afraid, and prayed for mercy.

“If I spare thee, knave,” said Swanhild, “thou shalt do this:  thou shalt lead me up Mosfell to speak with Eric.”

“I may not do that, lady,” groaned Jon; “for Eric is not on Mosfell.”

“Where is he, then?” asked Swanhild.

Now Jon saw that he had said an unlucky thing, and answered: 

“Nay, I know not.  Last night he rode from Mosfell with Skallagrim Lambstail.”

“Thou liest, knave,” said Swanhild.  “Speak, or thou shalt be slain.”

“Slay on,” groaned Jon, glancing at the swords above him, and shutting his eyes.  For, though he feared much to die, he had no will to make known Eric’s plans.

“Look not at the swords; thou shalt not die so easily.  Hearken:  speak, and speak truly, or thou shalt seek Hela’s lap after this fashion,” and, bending down, she whispered in his ear, then laughed aloud.

Now Jon grew faint with fear; his lips turned blue, and his teeth chattered at the thought of how he should be made to die.  Still, he would say nothing.

Then Swanhild spoke to Gizur and the thrall, and bade them bind him with a rope, tear the garments from him, and bring snow.  They did this, and pushed the matter to the drawing of knives.  But when he saw the steel Jon cried aloud that he would tell all.