When Eric left her, Gudruda drew yet nearer to the edge of the mighty falls, and seated herself on their very brink.  Her breast was full of joy, and there she sat and let the splendour of the night and the greatness of the rushing sounds sink into her heart.  Yonder shone the setting sun, poised, as it were, on Westman’s distant peaks, and here sped the waters, and by that path Eric had come back to her.  Yea, and there on Sheep-saddle was the road that he had trod down Goldfoss; and but now he had slain one Baresark and won another to be his thrall, and they two alone had smitten the company of Ospakar, and come thence with honour and but little harmed.  Surely no such man as Eric had ever lived—­none so fair and strong and tender; and she was right happy in his love!  She stretched out her arms towards him whom but an hour gone she had thought dead, but who had lived to come back to her with honour, and blessed his beloved name, and laughed aloud in her joyousness of heart, calling: 

“Eric!  Eric!”

But Swanhild, creeping behind her, did not laugh.  She heard Gudruda’s voice and guessed Gudruda’s gladness, and jealousy arose within her and rent her.  Should this fair rival like to take her joy from her?

“Grey Wolf, Grey Wolf! what sayest thou?”

See, now, if Gudruda were gone, if she rolled a corpse into those boiling waters, Eric might yet be hers; or, if he was not hers, yet Gudruda’s he could never be.

“Grey Wolf, Grey Wolf! what is thy counsel?”

Right on the brink of the great gulf sat Gudruda.  One stroke and all would be ended.  Eric had gone; there was no eye to see—­none save the Grey Wolf’s; there was no tongue to tell the deed that might be done.  Who could call her to account?  The Gods!  Who were the Gods?  What were the Gods?  Were they not dreams?  There were no Gods save the Gods of Evil—­the Gods she knew and communed with.

“Grey Wolf, Grey Wolf! what is thy rede?”

There sat Gudruda, laughing in the triumph of her joy, with the sunset-glow shining on her beauty, and there, behind her, Swanhild crept—­crept like a fox upon his sleeping prey.

Now she is there—­

“I hear thee, Grey Wolf!  Back to my breast, Grey Wolf!”

Surely Gudruda heard something?  She half turned her head, then again fell to calling aloud to the waters: 

“Eric! beloved Eric!—­ah! is there ever a light like the light of thine eyes—­is there ever a joy like the joy of thy kiss?”

Swanhild heard, and her springs of mercy froze.  Hate and fury entered into her.  She rose upon her knees and gathered up her strength: 

“Seek, then, thy joy in Goldfoss,” she cried aloud, and with all her force she thrust.

Gudruda fell a fathom or more, then, with a cry, she clutched wildly at a little ledge of rock, and hung there, her feet resting on the shelving bank.  Thirty fathoms down swirled and poured and rolled the waters of the Golden Falls.  A fathom above, red in the red light of evening, lowered the pitiless face of Swanhild.  Gudruda looked beneath her and saw.  Pale with agony she looked up and saw, but she said naught.