and best one, dead, him who with Hrothgar the homestead
ruled. On then went the atheling-born o’er
stone-cliffs steep and strait defiles, narrow passes
and unknown ways, headlands sheer, and the haunts
of the Nicors. Foremost he {21a} fared, a few
at his side of the wiser men, the ways to scan, till
he found in a flash the forested hill hanging over
the hoary rock, a woful wood: the waves below
were dyed in blood. The Danish men had sorrow
of soul, and for Scyldings all, for many a hero, ’twas
hard to bear, ill for earls, when Aeschere’s
head they found by the flood on the foreland there.
Waves were welling, the warriors saw, hot with blood;
but the horn sang oft battle-song bold. The band
sat down, and watched on the water worm-like things,
sea-dragons strange that sounded the deep, and nicors
that lay on the ledge of the ness — such
as oft essay at hour of morn on the road-of-sails
their ruthless quest, — and sea-snakes
and monsters. These started away, swollen and
savage that song to hear, that war-horn’s blast.
The warden of Geats, with bolt from bow, then balked
of life, of wave-work, one monster, amid its heart
went the keen war-shaft; in water it seemed less doughty
in swimming whom death had seized. Swift on the
billows, with boar-spears well hooked and barbed,
it was hard beset, done to death and dragged on the
headland, wave-roamer wondrous. Warriors viewed
the grisly guest. Then girt him Beowulf in martial
mail, nor mourned for his life. His breastplate
broad and bright of hues, woven by hand, should the
waters try; well could it ward the warrior’s
body that battle should break on his breast in vain
nor harm his heart by the hand of a foe. And
the helmet white that his head protected was destined
to dare the deeps of the flood, through wave-whirl
win: ’twas wound with chains, decked with
gold, as in days of yore the weapon-smith worked it
wondrously, with swine-forms set it, that swords nowise,
brandished in battle, could bite that helm. Nor
was that the meanest of mighty helps which Hrothgar’s
orator offered at need: “Hrunting”
they named the hilted sword, of old-time heirlooms
easily first; iron was its edge, all etched with poison,
with battle-blood hardened, nor blenched it at fight
in hero’s hand who held it ever, on paths of
peril prepared to go to folkstead {21b} of foes.
Not first time this it was destined to do a daring
task. For he bore not in mind, the bairn of Ecglaf
sturdy and strong, that speech he had made, drunk
with wine, now this weapon he lent to a stouter swordsman.
Himself, though, durst not under welter of waters
wager his life as loyal liegeman. So lost he
his glory, honor of earls. With the other not
so, who girded him now for the grim encounter.
