ground and reels on.

Eric reels on to the brink of the gulf. Gizur sees his purpose,
struggles and shrieks aloud. But the strength of the dying Eric is more
than the strength of Gizur. Now Brighteyes stands on the dizzy edge and
the light of the passing sun flames about his head. And now, bearing
Gizur with him, he hurls himself out into the gulf, and lo! the sun
sinks!

Men stand wondering, but Swanhild cries aloud:

"Nobly done, Eric! nobly done! So I would have seen thee die who of all
men wast the first!"

This then was the end of Eric Brighteyes the Unlucky, who of all
warriors that have lived in Iceland was the mightiest, the goodliest,
and the best beloved of women and of those who clung to him.

Now, on the morrow, Swanhild caused the body of Eric to be searched for
in the cleft, and there they found it, floating in water and with
the dead Gizur yet clasped in its bear-grip. Then she cleansed it and
clothed it again in its rent armour, and bound on the Hell-shoes, and it
was carried on horses to the sea-side, and with it were borne the bodies
of Skallagrim Lambstail the Baresark, Eric's thrall, and of all those
men whom they had slain in the last great fight on Mosfell, that is now
named Ericsfell.

Then Swanhild drew her long dragon of war, in which she had come from
Orkneys, from its shed over against Westman Isles, and in the centre of
the ship, she piled the bodies of the slain in the shape of a bed,
and lashed them fast. And on this bed she laid the corpse of Eric
Brighteyes, and the breast of black Skallagrim the Baresark was his
pillow, and the breast of Gizur, Ospakar's son, was his foot-rest.

Then she caused the sails to be hoisted, and went alone aboard the long
ship, the rails of which were hung with the shields of the dead men.

And when at evening the breeze freshened to a gale that blew from the
land, she cut the cable with her own hand, and the ship leapt forward
like a thing alive, and rushed out in the red light of the sunset
towards the open sea.

Now ever the gale freshened and folk, standing on Westman Heights,
saw the long ship plunge past, dipping her prow beneath the waves and
sending the water in a rain of spray over the living Swanhild, over the
dead Eric and those he lay upon.

And by the head of Eric Brighteyes, her hair streaming on the wind,
stood Swanhild the Witch, clad in her purple cloak, and with rings of
gold about her throat and arms. She stood by Eric's head