Part XXI

BEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:"Sorrow not, sage! It beseems us betterfriends to avenge than fruitlessly mourn them.Each of us all must his end abidein the ways of the world; so win who mayglory ere death! When his days are told,that is the warrior's worthiest doom.Rise, O realm-warder! Ride we anon,and mark the trail of the mother of Grendel.No harbor shall hide her -- heed my promise! --enfolding of field or forested mountainor floor of the flood, let her flee where she will!But thou this day endure in patience,as I ween thou wilt, thy woes each one."Leaped up the graybeard: God he thanked,mighty Lord, for the man's brave words.For Hrothgar soon a horse was saddledwave-maned steed. The sovran wisestately rode on; his shield-armed menfollowed in force. The footprints ledalong the woodland, widely seen,a path o'er the plain, where she passed, and trodthe murky moor; of men-at-armsshe bore the bravest and best one, dead,him who with Hrothgar the homestead ruled.On then went the atheling-borno'er stone-cliffs steep and strait defiles,narrow passes and unknown ways,headlands sheer, and the haunts of the Nicors.Foremost he fared, a few at his sideof the wiser men, the ways to scan,till he found in a flash the forested hillhanging over the hoary rock,a woful wood: the waves belowwere dyed in blood. The Danish menhad sorrow of soul, and for Scyldings all,for many a hero, 'twas hard to bear,ill for earls, when Aeschere's headthey found by the flood on the foreland there.Waves were welling, the warriors saw,hot with blood; but the horn sang oftbattle-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 mornon 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 heartwent the keen war-shaft; in water it seemedless doughty in swimming whom death had seized.Swift on the billows, with boar-spears wellhooked and barbed, it was hard beset,done to death and dragged on the headland,wave-roamer wondrous. Warriors viewedthe grisly guest.Then girt him Beowulfin 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 bodythat battle should break on his breast in vainnor harm his heart by the hand of a foe.And the helmet white that his head protectedwas destined to dare the deeps of the flood,through wave-whirl win: 'twas wound with chains,decked with gold, as in days of yorethe 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 helpswhich 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 fightin hero's hand who held it ever,on paths of peril prepared to goto folkstead of foes. Not first time thisit was destined to do a daring task.For he bore not in mind, the bairn of Ecglafsturdy and strong, that speech he had made,drunk with wine, now this weapon he lentto a stouter swordsman. Himself, though, durst notunder welter of waters wager his lifeas loyal liegeman. So lost he his glory,honor of earls. With the other not so,who girded him now for the grim encounter.