“Eric Brighteyes, Skallagrim Lambstail, and Gudruda the Fair,” whispered Swanhild, naming the horses and laughing evilly—­“the birds are within!  Now to snare them.”

“Were it not best to meet them by the ship?” asked Gizur.

“Nay, thou fool; if once Eric and Skallagrim are back to back, and Whitefire is aloft, how many shall be dead before they are down, thinkest thou?  We shall not find them sleeping twice.”

“It is shameful to slay sleeping men,” said Gizur.

“They are outlaws,” she answered.  “Hearken, Ospakar’s son.  Thou sayest thou dost love me and wouldst wed me:  know this, that if thou dost fail me now, I will never look upon thy face again, but will name thee Niddering in all men’s ears.”

Now Gizur loved Swanhild much, for she had thrown her glamour on him as once she did on Atli, and he thought of her day and night.  For there was this strange thing about Swanhild that, though she was a witch and wicked, being both fair and gentle she could lead all men, except Eric, to love her.

But of men she loved Eric alone.

Then Gizur held his peace; but Swanhild spoke again: 

“It will be of no use to try the doors, for they are strong.  Yet when I was a child before now I have passed in and out the house at night by the store-room casement.  Follow me, Gizur.”  Then she crept along the shadow of the wall, for she knew it every stone, till she came to the store-room, and lo! the shutter stood open, and through it the moonlight poured into the chamber.  Swanhild lifted her head above the sill and looked, then started back.

“Hush!” she said, “Skallagrim lies asleep within.”

“Pray the Gods he wake not!” said Gizur beneath his breath, and turned to go.  But Swanhild caught him by the arm; then gently raised her head and looked again, long and steadily.  Presently she turned and laughed softly.

“Things go well for us,” she said; “the sot lies drunk.  We have nothing to fear from him.  He lies drunk in a pool of ale.”

Then Gizur looked.  The moonlight poured into the little room, and by it he saw the great shape of Skallagrim.  His head was thrown back, his mouth was wide.  He snored loudly in his drunken sleep, and all about him ran the brown ale, for the spigot of the cask lay upon the floor.  In his left hand was a horn cup, but in his right he still grasped his axe.

“Now we must enter,” said Swanhild.  Gizur hung back, but she sprang upon the sill lightly as a fox, and slid thence into the store-room.  Then Gizur must follow, and presently he stood beside her in the room, and at their feet lay drunken Skallagrim.  Gizur looked first at his sword, then on the Baresark, and lastly at Swanhild.

“Nay,” she whispered, “touch him not.  Perchance he would cry out—­and we seek higher game.  He has that within him which will hold him fast for a while.  Follow where I shall lead.”

She took his hand and, gliding through the doorway, passed along the passage till she came to the great hall.  Swanhild could see well in the dark, and moreover she knew the road.  Presently they stood in the empty hall.  The fire had burnt down, but two embers yet glowed upon the hearth, like red and angry eyes.