Beowulf

XXXIV

WIGLAF his name was, Weohstan’s son, lin­den-​thane loved, the lord of Scylf­in­gs, Aelfhere’s kins­man. His king he now saw with heat un­der hel­met hard op­pressed. He mind­ed the prizes his prince had giv­en him, wealthy seat of the Waeg­mund­ing line, and folk-​rights that his fa­ther owned Not long he lin­gered. The lin­den yel­low, his shield, he seized; the old sword he drew: — as heir­loom of Ean­mund earth-​dwellers knew it, who was slain by the sword-​edge, son of Ohtere, friend­less ex­ile, erst in fray killed by Weohstan, who won for his kin brown-​bright hel­met, breast­plate ringed, old sword of Eotens, Onela’s gift, weeds of war of the war­rior-​thane, bat­tle-​gear brave: though a broth­er’s child had been felled, the feud was un­felt by Onela. {34a} For win­ters this war-​gear Weohstan kept, breast­plate and board, till his bairn had grown earl­ship to earn as the old sire did: then he gave him, mid Geats, the gear of bat­tle, por­tion huge, when he passed from life, fared aged forth. For the first time now with his lead­er-​lord the liege­man young was bid­den to share the shock of bat­tle. Nei­ther soft­ened his soul, nor the sire’s be­quest weak­ened in war. {34b} So the worm found out when once in fight the foes had met! Wiglaf spake, — and his words were sage; sad in spir­it, he said to his com­rades: — “I re­mem­ber the time, when mead we took, what promise we made to this prince of ours in the ban­quet-​hall, to our break­er-​of-​rings, for gear of com­bat to give him re­quital, for hard-​sword and hel­met, if hap should bring stress of this sort! Him­self who chose us from all his army to aid him now, urged us to glo­ry, and gave these trea­sures, be­cause he count­ed us keen with the spear and hardy ‘neath helm, though this hero-​work our lead­er hoped un­helped and alone to fin­ish for us, — folk-​de­fend­er who hath got him glo­ry greater than all men for dar­ing deeds! Now the day is come that our no­ble mas­ter has need of the might of war­riors stout. Let us stride along the hero to help while the heat is about him glow­ing and grim! For God is my wit­ness I am far more fain the fire should seize along with my lord these limbs of mine! {34c} Un­suit­ing it seems our shields to bear home­ward hence, save here we es­say to fell the foe and de­fend the life of the Wed­ers’ lord. I wot ’twere shame on the law of our land if alone the king out of Geatish war­riors woe en­dured and sank in the strug­gle! My sword and hel­met, breast­plate and board, for us both shall serve!” Through slaugh­ter-​reek strode he to suc­cor his chief­tain, his bat­tle-​helm bore, and brief words spake: — “Be­owulf dear­est, do all brave­ly, as in youth­ful days of yore thou vowedst that while life should last thou wouldst let no wise thy glo­ry droop! Now, great in deeds, atheling stead­fast, with all thy strength shield thy life! I will stand to help thee.” At the words the worm came once again, mur­der­ous mon­ster mad with rage, with fire-​bil­lows flam­ing, its foes to seek, the hat­ed men. In heat-​waves burned that board {34d} to the boss, and the breast­plate failed to shel­ter at all the spear-​thane young. Yet quick­ly un­der his kins­man’s shield went ea­ger the earl, since his own was now all burned by the blaze. The bold king again had mind of his glo­ry: with might his glaive was driv­en in­to the drag­on’s head, — blow nerved by hate. But Naegling {34e} was shiv­ered, bro­ken in bat­tle was Be­owulf’s sword, old and gray. ‘Twas grant­ed him not that ev­er the edge of iron at all could help him at strife: too strong was his hand, so the tale is told, and he tried too far with strength of stroke all swords he wield­ed, though stur­dy their steel: they stead­ed him nought. Then for the third time thought on its feud that folk-​de­stroy­er, fire-​dread drag­on, and rushed on the hero, where room al­lowed, bat­tle-​grim, burn­ing; its bit­ter teeth closed on his neck, and cov­ered him with waves of blood from his breast that welled.