Beowulf

XXI

BE­OWULF spake, bairn of Ecgth­eow: “Sor­row not, sage! It be­seems us bet­ter friends to avenge than fruit­less­ly mourn them. Each of us all must his end abide in the ways of the world; so win who may glo­ry 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 moun­tain or 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 sad­dled wave-​maned steed. The sovran wise state­ly rode on; his shield-​armed men fol­lowed in force. The foot­prints led along the wood­land, wide­ly seen, a path o’er the plain, where she passed, and trod the murky moor; of men-​at-​arms she bore the bravest 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.