them, for, made with hate and drink and the lust of fight, Swanhild's
folk--Eric's friends--remembering the words of Atli, fell on Ospakar's;
and the people of Björn fell on each other, brother on brother, and
father on son--nor might the fray be stayed. The boards were overthrown,
dead men lay among the meats and mead, and the blood of freeman, lord
and thrall ran adown the floor. Everywhere through the dusky hall
glittered the sheen of flashing swords and rose the clang of war. Darts
clove the air like tongues of flame, and the clamour of battle beat
against the roof.

Blinded of the Norns who brought these things to pass, men sought no
mercy and they gave none, but smote and slew till few were left to slay.

And still Gudruda sat in her bride-seat, and, with eyes fixed in horror,
watched the waxing of the war. Near to her stood Swanhild, marking all
things with a fierce-set face, and calling down curses on her folk, who
one and all cried "Eric! Eric!" and swept the thralls of Ospakar as corn
is swept of the sickle.

And there, nigh to the door, pale of face and beautiful to see, golden
Eric clove his way, and with him went black Skallagrim. Terrible was
the flare of Whitefire as he flicked aloft like the levin in the cloud.
Terrible was the flare of Whitefire; but more terrible was the light
of Eric's eyes, for they seemed to flame in his head, and wherever that
fire fell it lighted men the way to death. Whitefire sung and flickered,
and crashed the axe of Skallagrim, and still through the press of war
they won their way. Now Gizur stands before them, spear aloft, and
Whitefire leaps up to meet him. Lo! he turns and flies. The coward son
of Ospakar does not seek the fate of Ospakar!