fiercest of fighting-men, fell adown. On the
hall-guest she hurled herself, hent her short sword,
broad and brown-edged, {22b} the bairn to avenge,
the sole-born son.
— On his shoulder lay
braided breast-mail, barring death, withstanding entrance
of edge or blade. Life would have ended for Ecgtheow’s
son, under wide earth for that earl of Geats, had
his armor of war not aided him, battle-net hard, and
holy God wielded the victory, wisest Maker.
The Lord of Heaven allowed his cause; and easily rose
the earl erect.
’Mid the battle-gear saw he a blade triumphant,
old-sword of Eotens, with edge of proof, warriors’
heirloom, weapon unmatched, — save only
’twas more than other men to bandy-of-battle
could bear at all — as the giants had wrought
it, ready and keen. Seized then its chain-hilt
the Scyldings’ chieftain, bold and battle-grim,
brandished the sword, reckless of life, and so wrathfully
smote that it gripped her neck and grasped her hard,
her bone-rings breaking: the blade pierced through
that fated-one’s flesh: to floor she sank.
Bloody the blade: he was blithe of his deed.
Then blazed forth light. ’Twas bright within
as when from the sky there shines unclouded heaven’s
candle. The hall he scanned. By the wall
then went he; his weapon raised high by its hilts
the Hygelac-thane, angry and eager. That edge
was not useless to the warrior now. He wished
with speed Grendel to guerdon for grim raids many,
for the war he waged on Western-Danes oftener far
than an only time, when of Hrothgar’s hearth-companions
he slew in slumber, in sleep devoured, fifteen men
of the folk of Danes, and as many others outward bore,
his horrible prey. Well paid for that the wrathful
prince! For now prone he saw Grendel stretched
there, spent with war, spoiled of life, so scathed
had left him Heorot’s battle. The body
sprang far when after death it endured the blow,
sword-stroke savage, that severed its head. Soon,
{23a} then, saw the sage companions who waited with
Hrothgar, watching the flood, that the tossing waters
turbid grew, blood-stained the mere. Old men
together, hoary-haired, of the hero spake; the warrior
would not, they weened, again, proud of conquest,
come to seek their mighty master. To many it
seemed the wolf-of-the-waves had won his life.
The ninth hour came. The noble Scyldings left
the headland; homeward went the gold-friend of men.
{23b} But the guests sat on, stared at the surges,
sick in heart, and wished, yet weened not, their winsome
lord again to see.
Now that sword began, from blood of the fight, in
battle-droppings, {23c} war-blade, to wane:
’twas a wondrous thing that all of it melted
as ice is wont when frosty fetters the Father loosens,
unwinds the wave-bonds, wielding all seasons and times:
the true God he! Nor took from that dwelling
the duke of the Geats save only the head and that
hilt withal blazoned with jewels: the blade
