470
WEIRD TALES
was the image of him. Eric Ericson and Erie the Giant were the samel
Looking across the table I saw two men who were undoubtedly brothers —their faces were as alike as coins stamped in the same mold. And such singularly mean, wicked and cynical faces it has seldom been my lot to see. One of these brothers, inflamed with drink, was evidently seeking a quar¬ rel with the blue-eyed giant who faced him, and Eric was not the man to evade a fight. Both rose, and some¬ thing told me that the appellation “coward” had been given. Eric’s palm left a ruddy mark on the other’s cheek. In another moment their broadswords were out, and the vik¬ ings stopped drinking to enjoy the spectacle to the full.
The clanking of the swords, wielded like twigs in the hands of the com¬ batants, came to my straining ears like the tapping of a far-off alarm bell. The scene was beginning to fade again, and I felt, I can not say why, that soon there was to be enacted something of the greatest importance to me. I concentrated every sense upon the picture before me.
Eric swung his sword, an immense two-handed brand, with a disregard for wounds that showed him to be a true Norseman. His opponent was made of less sturdy stuff: he danced in and out, feinted and parried, and leaped nimbly out of reach after each lunge. Both men began to show red spots of blood on their chests and arms, but Eric seemed to be getting the better of it.
The feasters, wild with the sight of blood, yelled for a finishing stroke. Eric was pressing his antagonist hard, swinging his sword in a flashing are that beat through the other’s de¬ fense time and time again. Then I happened to look at the other brother. His hand was stealing toward the dagger that hung at his side!
Eric got home a mighty blow, and his enemy staggered. But the brother
who had been seated leaped up behind Eric, his face twisted with hate, his dagger poised. There was a sharp command from the king, cries of shame sounded from all sides, and the mist rolled up again, obscuring every detail of the scene save that wolfish face. It seemed to grow to immense proportions, blotting out even the rolling fog of vapor, then to hang poised for a moment before me, and suddenly run together, and I felt something enter my consciousness that had not been there before.
It was a spirit of pride and hatred! The vapor cleared from my bedroom, But I knew the truth, and fear and disgust shadowed my soul. I was the unlucky dupe of the treacherous brother, whose twisted personality had appeared out of a fog of yester¬ days to seize my own and use it for vengeance upon the reincarnation of Eric the Giant.
I was in a mental turmoil. Al¬ though I now knew exactly what was wrong with me, the realization of the truth was of no help to me in control¬ ling myself. I felt the murderous pas¬ sion flooding my brain, and my hands kept reaching for the poker. It was only by the greatest effort that I kept myself from rushing out to Ericson’s rooms and braining him.
But I made this effort, and when 1 felt quieter I hurried to Andrews’ quarters to ask his adviee. It was ob¬ vious that I could not stay in the uni¬ versity, and I wanted to have An¬ drews get Ericson out of the way for a day so that I could leave without seeing him. Andrews was certainly surprized when I burst in upon him, haggard and wild-eyed as I was. It was his habit to study very late at night, otherwise I should not have found him up at that hour, and he was obviously more anxious to get to work than to chat with me.
However, I knew he would give me sympathetic attention as soon as I had informed him of my situation, and I
