Eric and Skallagrim sat together on the open space of rock that is before the cave, and great heaviness and fear came into their hearts, so that they had no desire to sleep.

“Methinks the night is ghost-ridden,” said Eric, “and I am fey, for I grow cold, and it seems to me that one strokes my hair.”

“It is ghost-ridden, lord,” answered Skallagrim.  “Trolls are abroad, and the God-kind gather to see Eric die.”

For a while they sat in silence, then suddenly the mountain heaved up gently beneath them.  Thrice it seemed to heave like a woman’s breast, and left them frightened.

“Now the dwarf-folk come from their caves,” quoth Skallagrim, “and great deeds may be looked for, since they are not drawn to the upper earth by a little thing.”

Then once more they sat silent; and thick darkness came down upon the mountain, hiding the stars.

“Look,” said Eric of a sudden, and he pointed to Hecla.

Skallagrim looked, and lo! the snowy dome of Hecla was aglow with a rosy flame like the light of dawn.

“Winter lights,” said Lambstail, shuddering.

“Death lights!” answered Eric.  “Look again!”

They looked, and behold! in the rosy glow there sat three giant forms of fire, and their shapes were the shapes of women.  Before them was a loom of blackness that stretched from earth to sky, and they wove at it with threads of flame.  They were splendid and terrible to see.  Their hair streamed behind them like meteor flames, their eyes shone like lightning, and their breasts gleamed like the polished bucklers of the gods.  They wove fiercely at the loom of blackness, and as they wove they sang.  The voice of the one was as the wind whistling through the pines; the voice of the other was as the sound of rain hissing on deep waters; and the voice of the third was as the moan of the sea.  They wove fearfully and they sang loudly, but what they sang might not be known.  Now the web grew and the woof grew, and a picture came upon the loom—­a great picture written in fire.

Behold! it was the semblance of a storm-awakened sea, and a giant ship fled before the gale—­a dragon of war, and in the ship were piled the corses of men, and on these lay another corse, as one lies upon a bed.  They looked, and the face of the corse grew bright.  It was the face of Eric, and his head rested upon the dead heart of Skallagrim.

Clinging to each other, Eric and Skallagrim saw the sight of fear that was written on the loom of the Norns.  They saw it for a breath.  Then, with a laugh like the wail of wolves, the shapes of fire sprang up and rent the web asunder.  Then the first passed upward to the sky, the second southward towards Middalhof, but the third swept over Mosfell, so that the brightness of her flaming form shone on the rock where they sat by the cave, and the lightning of her eyes was mirrored in the byrnie of Skallagrim and on Eric’s golden helm.  She swept past, pointing downwards as she went, and lo! she was gone, and once more darkness and silence lay upon the earth.