Free Beowulf by Anonymous, Gummere Page B

man-slayer
fought with such skill in sudden attacks.
Nor did the demon think to delay,
but for his first victim he swiftly seized
a sleeping warrior and slit him wide open,
biting into the body, drinking blood in streams,
swallowing huge mouthfuls—till soon
he had eaten the entire man’s corpse,
even feet and hands. Next he stepped forth
to clutch with his claws strong-hearted Beowulf
where he lay at rest, the foe reaching for him
to grab with his hands. The Geat answered quickly,
propped on one arm, he faced the attack.
That devourer of men then soon discovered
that he never had met any one in middle-earth,
even in far-off regions, of the race of men
with hand-grip more strong. His spirit sank,
filled with fear that he could not get away.
He was eager for flight, to escape into darkness,
to find fellowship with devils. Never had he met
such a dread encounter in his former days.
The brave kinsman of Hygelac then brought to mind
his speech last evening and sprang to his feet,
to hold his foe fast till his fingers broke.
The giant fought to flee, but the Geat still advanced.
The wicked destroyer wildly thought
where to make his escape, far away from the hall,
to find safety in fens, yet knew his fingers trapped
in his enemy’s grasp. This was a grim journey
that the hellish ravager took to Heorot!
The din filled the mead-hall. All of the Danes,
the bold warriors, were to drink this time
the ale of terror. Both fighters raged in their fury,
as they fought for the hall. The tall house trembled.
It was a great wonder that the wine-hall,
the fairest of buildings, withstood the war-strife,
did not fall to the ground. But it was held firm,
from both within and without, by iron bands
skillfully fastened. Many a mead-bench,
adorned with gold, flew from the floor,
as I have heard told, in the struggle of foes.
No wise warrior among the Scyldings
would have thought any man could by his own might
so threaten to destroy the hall decked with horns,
to break it apart—though it might fall in fire’s embrace,
swallowed in smoke. New sounds rose up
that were not of this earth. The North-Danes recoiled
at the horrible terror, as each of their troop
heard a wail go up from inside the walls,
the enemy of God screaming songs of despair,
his cries of defeat—as this captive of hell
found his wounds fatal. Beowulf won with his death-grip,
proved the greatest in might of any man,
in that day and time, during his life on earth.

—XII—
    This protector of warriors did not at all wish
to let loose the death-bringer while still alive,
nor did he count Grendel’s life-days of value
to anyone at all. There many a man of Beowulf’s band
eagerly brandished their ancient sword-blades,
wishing to protect the life of their lord,
the widely famed chief, any way that they could.
While engaged in the fray, these brave-minded warriors
sought to strike at the foe from every side,
but could not figure how to hew Grendel down,
how to seek out his soul: nor might any war-sword,
not the strongest of irons in all of the earth,
even touch to do harm to that evil destroyer—
for Grendel wove spells round all human weapons,
on all swords of victory. Yet severed from life,
he was fated to feel misery at the end of his days,
his time on the earth, and the alien terror must now
embark on a far journey into the power of fiends.
    Then that one found out, who so often before
had wrought wicked evils, terrified the spirits
of the race of men—he waged war against God—
that this time his fearsome strength would fail him,
for his high-spirited foe, the kinsman of Hygelac,
held him fast by the hand. Each hated the other,
while they both lived. The dreaded demon
suffered terrible torture, as his shoulder tore open,
a great wound gaping as sinews sprang apart,
and the bone-locks burst. To Beowulf then
was glory given in battle. Sick unto death,
Grendel could only flee to the fen-slopes,
seek his home without joy. He certainly knew
that he had reached the length of his