He was gone, and the watchers rushed down to the foot of the pool, for there, if he rose at all, he must pass to the shallows. Swanhild could look no more, but sank upon the ground. The face of Gudruda was set like a stone with doubt and anguish. Ospakar saw and read the meaning, and he said to himself: “Now Odin grant that this youngling rise not again! for the maid loves him dearly, and he is too much a man to be lightly swept aside.”
Eric struck the pool. Down he sank, and down and down—for the water falling from so far must almost reach the bottom of the pool before it can rise again—and he with it. Now he touched the bottom, but very gently, and slowly began to rise, and, as he rose, was carried along by the stream. But it was long before he could breathe, and it seemed to him that his lungs would burst. Still, he struggled up, striking great strokes with his legs.
“Farewell to Eric,” said Asmund, “he will rise no more now.”
But just as he spoke Gudruda pointed to something that gleamed, white and golden, beneath the surface of the current, and lo! the bright hair of Eric rose from the water, and he drew a great breath, shaking his head like a seal, and, though but feebly, struck out for the shallows that are at the foot of the pool. Now he found footing, but was swept over by the fierce current, and cut his forehead, and he carried that scar till his death. Again he rose, and with a rush gained the bank unaided and fell upon the snow.
Now people gathered about him in silence and wondering, for none had known so great a deed. And presently Eric opened his eyes and looked up, and found the eyes of Gudruda fixed on his, and there was that in them which made him glad he had dared the path of Golden Falls.
V
HOW ERIC WON THE SWORD WHITEFIRE
Now Asmund the priest bent down, and Eric saw him and spoke:
“Thou badest me to thy Yule-feast, lord, by yonder slippery road and I have come. Dost thou welcome me well?”
“No man better,” quoth Asmund. “Thou art a gallant man, though foolhardy; and thou hast done a deed that shall be told of while skalds sing and men live in Iceland.”
“Make place, my father,” said Gudruda, “for Eric bleeds.” And she loosed the kerchief from her neck and bound it about his wounded brow, and, taking the rich cloak from her body, threw it on his shoulders, and no man said her nay.
Then they led him to the hall, where Eric clothed himself and rested, and he sent back the thrall Jon to Coldback, bidding him tell Saevuna, Eric’s mother, that he was safe. But he was somewhat weak all that day, and the sound of waters roared in his ears.
Now Ospakar and Groa were ill pleased at the turn things had taken; but all the others rejoiced much, for Eric was well loved of men and they had grieved if the waters had prevailed against his might. But Swanhild brooded bitterly, for Eric never turned to look on her.
The hour of the feast drew on and, according to custom, it was held in the Temple, and thither went all men. When they were seated in the nave of the Hof, the fat ox that had been made ready for sacrifice was led in and dragged before the altar on which the holy fire burned. Now Asmund the Priest slew it, amid silence, before the figures of the Gods, and, catching its blood in the blood-bowl, sprinkled the altar and all the worshippers with the blood-twigs. Then the ox was cut up, and the figures of the almighty Gods were anointed with its molten fat and wiped with fair linen. Next the flesh was boiled in the cauldrons that were hung over fires lighted all down the nave, and the feast began.
Now men ate, and drank much ale and mead, and all were merry. But Ospakar Blacktooth grew not glad, though he drank much, for he saw that the eyes of Gudruda ever watched Eric’s face and that they smiled on each other. He was wroth at this, for he knew that the bait must be good and the line strong that should win this fair fish to his angle, and as he sat, unknowingly his fingers loosed the peace-strings of his sword Whitefire, and he half drew it, so that its brightness flamed in the firelight.
“Thou hast a wondrous blade there, Ospakar!” said Asmund, “though this is no place to draw it. Whence came it? Methinks no such swords are fashioned now.”
“Ay, Asmund, a wondrous blade indeed. There is no other such in the world, for the dwarfs forged it of old, and he shall be unconquered who holds it aloft. This was King Odin’s sword, and it is named Whitefire. Ralph the Red took it from King Eric’s cairn in Norway, and he strove long with the Barrow-Dweller[*] before he wrenched it from his grasp. But my father won it and slew Ralph, though he had never done this had Whitefire been aloft against him. But Ralph the Red, being in drink when the ships met in battle, fought with an axe, and was slain by my father, and since then Whitefire has been the last light that many a chief’s eyes have seen. Look at it, Asmund.”
[*] The ghost in the cairn.
Now he drew the great sword, and men were astonished as it flashed aloft. Its hilt was of gold, and blue stones were set therein. It measured two ells and a half from crossbar to point, and so bright was the broad blade that no one could look on it for long, and all down its length ran runes.
“A wondrous weapon, truly!” said Asmund. “How read the runes?”
“I know not, nor any man—they are ancient.”
“Let me look at them,” said Groa, “I am skilled in runes.” Now she took the sword, and heaved it up, and looked at the runes and said, “A strange writing truly.”
“How runs it, housekeeper?” said Asmund.
“Thus, lord, if my skill is not at fault:—
“Whitefire is my name—
Dwarf-folk forged me—
Odin’s sword was I—
Eric’s sword was I—
Eric’s sword shall I be—
And where I fall there he must follow me.”
Now Gudruda looked at Eric Brighteyes wonderingly, and Ospakar saw it and became very angry.
“Look not so, maiden,” he said, “for it shall be another Eric than yon flapper-duck who holds Whitefire aloft, though it may very well chance that he shall feel its edge.”
Now Gudruda bit her lip, and Eric burned red to the brow and spoke:
“It is ill, lord, to throw taunts like an angry woman. Thou art great and strong, yet I may dare a deed with thee.”
“Peace, boy! Thou canst climb a waterfall well, I gainsay it not; but beware ere thou settest up thyself against my strength. Say now, what game wilt thou play with Ospakar?”
“I will go on holmgang with thee, byrnie-clad or baresark,[*] and fight thee with axe or sword, or I will wrestle with thee, and Whitefire yonder shall be the winner’s prize.”
[*] To a duel, usually fought, in mail or without it, on an
island—“holm”—within a circle of hazel-twigs.
“Nay, I will have no bloodshed here at Middalhof,” said Asmund sternly. “Make play with fists, or wrestle if ye will, for that were great sport to see; but weapons shall not be drawn.”
Now Ospakar grew mad with anger and drink—and he grinned like a dog, till men saw the red gums beneath his lips.
“Thou wilt wrestle with me, youngling—with