The falling tide was setting westward through the strait, and we had to row more or less against it now as we crossed to where Gerda's white dress shone on the farther shore.
"Heidrek will not risk a landing," Bertric said.

"The sooner we are back here with Gerda the better.

He has heard of that wreck." I told him the words of the fishers, and he was the more sure of it.

We pulled on the faster therefore, and the light boat flew as only a Norse-built boat can fly.
Bertric was in the forward rower's place, steering, and now and again he turned his head to set the course.

I suppose we had covered half the distance across, when I heard him draw in his breath sharply.
"Holy saints," he said, "look yonder!" He was staring toward the westward mouth of the strait, half a mile away.