Part XXXII

THE fall of his lord he was fain to requitein after days; and to Eadgils he provedfriend to the friendless, and forces sentover the sea to the son of Ohtere,weapons and warriors: well repaid hethose care-paths cold when the king he slew.Thus safe through struggles the son of Ecgtheowhad passed a plenty, through perils dire,with daring deeds, till this day was comethat doomed him now with the dragon to strive.With comrades eleven the lord of Geatsswollen in rage went seeking the dragon.He had heard whence all the harm aroseand the killing of clansmen; that cup of priceon the lap of the lord had been laid by the finder.In the throng was this one thirteenth man,starter of all the strife and ill,care-laden captive; cringing thenceforced and reluctant, he led them ontill he came in ken of that cavern-hall,the barrow delved near billowy surges,flood of ocean. Within 'twas fullof wire-gold and jewels; a jealous warden,warrior trusty, the treasures held,lurked in his lair. Not light the taskof entrance for any of earth-born men!Sat on the headland the hero king,spake words of hail to his hearth-companions,gold-friend of Geats. All gloomy his soul,wavering, death-bound. Wyrd full nighstood ready to greet the gray-haired man,to seize his soul-hoard, sunder apartlife and body. Not long would bethe warrior's spirit enwound with flesh.Beowulf spake, the bairn of Ecgtheow: --"Through store of struggles I strove in youth,mighty feuds; I mind them all.I was seven years old when the sovran of rings,friend-of-his-folk, from my father took me,had me, and held me, Hrethel the king,with food and fee, faithful in kinship.Ne'er, while I lived there, he loathlier found me,bairn in the burg, than his birthright sons,Herebeald and Haethcyn and Hygelac mine.For the eldest of these, by unmeet chance,by kinsman's deed, was the death-bed strewn,when Haethcyn killed him with horny bow,his own dear liege laid low with an arrow,missed the mark and his mate shot down,one brother the other, with bloody shaft.A feeless fight, and a fearful sin,horror to Hrethel; yet, hard as it was,unavenged must the atheling die!Too awful it is for an aged manto bide and bear, that his bairn so youngrides on the gallows. A rime he makes,sorrow-song for his son there hangingas rapture of ravens; no rescue nowcan come from the old, disabled man!Still is he minded, as morning breaks,of the heir gone elsewhere; another he hopes nothe will bide to see his burg withinas ward for his wealth, now the one has founddoom of death that the deed incurred.Forlorn he looks on the lodge of his son,wine-hall waste and wind-swept chambersreft of revel. The rider sleepeth,the hero, far-hidden; no harp resounds,in the courts no wassail, as once was heard.