brother, his father’s offspring: outlawed
he fled, marked with murder, from men’s delights
warded the wilds.
— There woke from him
such fate-sent ghosts as Grendel, who, war-wolf horrid,
at Heorot found a warrior watching and waiting the
fray, with whom the grisly one grappled amain.
But the man remembered his mighty power, the glorious
gift that God had sent him, in his Maker’s mercy
put his trust for comfort and help: so he conquered
the foe, felled the fiend, who fled abject, reft
of joy, to the realms of death, mankind’s foe.
And his mother now, gloomy and grim, would go that
quest of sorrow, the death of her son to avenge.
To Heorot came she, where helmeted Danes slept in
the hall. Too soon came back old ills of the
earls, when in she burst, the mother of Grendel.
Less grim, though, that terror, e’en as terror
of woman in war is less, might of maid, than of men
in arms when, hammer-forged, the falchion hard, sword
gore-stained, through swine of the helm, crested,
with keen blade carves amain. Then was in hall
the hard-edge drawn, the swords on the settles, {19a}
and shields a-many firm held in hand: nor helmet
minded nor harness of mail, whom that horror seized.
Haste was hers; she would hie afar and save her life
when the liegemen saw her. Yet a single atheling
up she seized fast and firm, as she fled to the moor.
He was for Hrothgar of heroes the dearest, of trusty
vassals betwixt the seas, whom she killed on his couch,
a clansman famous, in battle brave. — Nor
was Beowulf there; another house had been held apart,
after giving of gold, for the Geat renowned. —
Uproar filled Heorot; the hand all had viewed, blood-flecked,
she bore with her; bale was returned, dole in the
dwellings: ’twas dire exchange where Dane
and Geat were doomed to give the lives of loved ones.
Long-tried king, the hoary hero, at heart was sad
when he knew his noble no more lived, and dead indeed
was his dearest thane. To his bower was Beowulf
brought in haste, dauntless victor. As daylight
broke, along with his earls the atheling lord, with
his clansmen, came where the king abode waiting to
see if the Wielder-of-All would turn this tale of
trouble and woe. Strode o’er floor the
famed-in-strife, with his hand-companions, —
the hall resounded, — wishing to greet
the wise old king, Ingwines’ lord; he asked
if the night had passed in peace to the prince’s
mind.
XX
Hrothgar spake, helmet-of-Scyldings: —
“Ask not of pleasure! Pain is renewed to
Danish folk. Dead is Aeschere, of Yrmenlaf the
elder brother, my sage adviser and stay in council,
shoulder-comrade in stress of fight when warriors
clashed and we warded our heads, hewed the helm-boars;
hero famed should be every earl as Aeschere was!
But here in Heorot a hand hath slain him of wandering
death-sprite. I wot not whither, {20a} proud
of the prey, her path she took, fain of her fill.
The feud she avenged that yesternight, unyieldingly,
