The Epic of Beowulf

Translated by Michael Morpurgo

 — Part One —

Beowulf and Grendel, the Monster of the Night

Hear, and listen well, my friends, and I will tell you a tale that
has been told for a thousand years and more. It may be an old story,
yet, as you will discover, it troubles and terrifies us now as much as
ever it did our ancestors, for we still fear the evil that stalks out there
in the darkness and beyond. We know that each of us in our time, in
our own way, must confront our fears and grapple with this monster
of the night who, given a chance, would invade our homes, and even
our hearts, if he could.
So roll back the years now, back to the fifth century after the birth
of Christ, and come with me over the sea to the Norse lands we now
know as Sweden and Norway and Denmark, to the ancient Viking
lands of the Danes and the Geats, the Angles and the Jutes. This will
be our here and now, as this tale of courage and cruelty unfolds, as
brave Beowulf battles with the forces of darkness, first with that foul
fiend Grendel, then with his sea-hag of a mother, and last of all, with
the death-dragon of the deep.
The story begins as all stories do: before it begins, for there is al-
ways a mother before a mother, and a king before a king. In Denmark
all the great lords, those royal descendants of Scyld, that great and
good king, followed in his footsteps and stayed strong against their
foes and loyal to their friends. The kingdom prospered. From their
conquests the land grew rich, so that the people flourished and were
happy. Feared by its enemies, loved by its allies, the kingdom of the
Danes became great and powerful in the world.
Then the lord Hrothgar came to the throne, son of the old King
Halfdane, great-grandson of Scyld, and he was to become the great-
est warrior king of them all. Fierce in battle, he fetched back home
more treasures from his conquests than had ever before been seen or

— 1 —
even dreamed of in Denmark. But he was generous too and a good
father to his people, so that they obeyed him always gladly. Hearing
of his increasing glory in battles, more and more warriors came to
join him. It seemed to them and to him that there could never be an
end to all his power and wealth. The kingdom was safe from its ene-
mies, the people warm at their hearths and well fed. Truly it was a
land of sweet content.
To celebrate these years of prosperity and plenty, Hrothgar de-
cided that he would raise for his people a huge mead-hall. It must, he
declared, be larger and more splendid than any mead-hall ever built.
Only the best timbers were used, only the finest craftsmen. At Hroth-
gar’s bidding they came from all over Denmark to construct it, so that
in no time at all the great hall was finished. It was truly even more
magnificent than he had ever imagined it could be. Heorot, he called
it, and at the first banquet he gave there, Hrothgar, by way of thanks,
gave out to each and every person rings and armbands of glowing
gold. No king could have been kinder, no people as proud and as
happy. Night after night they feasted in Heorot and listened to the
music of the harp and song of the poet. And every night the poet told
them that story they most loved to hear: how God had made the
earth in all its beauty, its mountains and meadows, seas and skies;
how he had made the sun and the moon to light it, the corn and the
trees to grow on it; how he gave life and being to every living crea-
ture that crawls and creeps and moves on land or in the sea or in the
air. And man too he made to live in this paradise. Around the warm-
ing hearth they listened to the poet’s story, enraptured, enthralled,
and entranced.
But there was another listener. Outside the walls of Heorot, in the
dim and the dark, there stalked an enemy from hell itself, the mon-
ster Grendel, sworn enemy of God and men alike, a beast born of evil
and shame. He heard that wondrous story of God’s good creation,
and because it was good, it was hateful to his ears. He heard the
sweet music of the harp, and afterward the joyous laughter echoing

— 2 —
through the hall as the mead-horn was passed around. Nothing had
ever so enraged this beast as night after night he had to listen to all
this happiness and harmony. It was more than his evil heart could
bear.
The night Grendel struck was the darkest night of all. He waited
until Hrothgar had gone to his bed, until only the lords who nightly
guarded Heorot were left. They were fast asleep when he pounced.
He was upon them so suddenly and with such violence and fury that
none could escape the terrible slaughter. Thirty lords he murdered in
his bloodlust, as savage and swift in his death-dealing as a maddened
fox in a chicken coop. He left not one of them alive, but carried them
off home to his lair to feast on their bloodied corpses at his leisure.
Only when day broke did Hrothgar and his warriors discover the
dreadful evidence of the holocaust at Heorot. Gone now were the
laughter and the music. Hrothgar sat silent in his grief and despair.
His warriors too mourned and lamented the loss of their friends and
brothers-in-arms. All were stunned at the merciless cruelty of this
fatal fiend of the darkness. But the horrors were not yet over, for the
next night Grendel came again, stalking over the foggy moors and
down through the forests toward Heorot. The warriors had barricad-
ed themselves in this time, and believed they must be safe. They
could not have known that against this hellish monster all such de-
fenses would be useless. In a frenzy of hate, Grendel burst in and
slaughtered everyone he found there, gorging himself at will. He
spared no one.
From that night on, no one, not even Hrothgar, dared sleep again
in Heorot. And so the great mead-hall stood empty, and stayed emp-
ty. Grendel the monster now ruled in Denmark, a rule of terror that
haunted Hrothgar and all his people, wherever they lived—men,
women, and children alike. For twelve long winters Grendel warred
unceasingly on the Danes, picking his blood-victims at random, the
innocent and the sick too, children and newborn babes. He was utter-
ly without mercy.

— 3 —
 Again and again he came to his killing ground, always unseen in
the black of night. No plan Hrothgar and the council thanes devised
could protect them from his fury, no prayers to the Almighty, no sac-
rifices to ancient heathen gods. Anywhere he struck—any farmstead,
any cottage. Anywhere and everywhere. Nothing could put an end to
these endless terror raids. A great and terrible grief darkened the
land, banishing all happiness, all hope. Even the noble Hrothgar sat
sunk in sorrow. Deep in his despair, the Danish king could see no
reprieve from this hideous nightmare visited so often upon his peo-
ple by this fearful monster.
By now the story of this dreadful tragedy, of the nightly suffering
Hrothgar and his people were enduring, had spread far and wide.
They had heard about it too across the water in the land of King Hy-
gelac of the Geats, for a long time faithful allies of the Danish king-
dom. But only one of them, the greatest and bravest of all princes—
Beowulf he was called—decided that this evil beast of the night must
be punished for all his wrongdoing, that Heorot must be cleansed of
this wickedness and Hrothgar and his people saved at last, even if
Beowulf had to give his own life to achieve it. Family and friends,
Edgetheow, his father, and his uncle, the good King Hygelac himself,
all of them did what they could to dissuade him from this reckless,
perilous mission. But all advice, all omens, only whetted Beowulf’s
determination to go to Denmark and slay this monster of the night.
He ordered a strong and seaworthy ship to be fitted out for the quest,
and handpicked fourteen of the fiercest warriors he knew. Out of the
sheltered fjord they rowed this sturdy warship, and set sail for Den-
mark, riding the wind-whipped waves over the sea.
In brisk breezes the ship fair flew along, plowing the storm-
tossed ocean, until at last the shadow of land along the horizon be-
came the rearing cliffs and capes of Denmark. Soon Beowulf and his
ring-mailed thanes were leaping ashore, each one thanking God most
fervently for his safe arrival. From the cliff high above them, Hroth-
gar’s startled watchman saw men land, and wondered who they

— 4 —
were, whether friend or foe. He rode down to the beach straight
away and challenged them at the point of his spear. “Who are you,
strangers? Where do you come from? I see you dressed and armed as
warriors ready for battle. In all my years patrolling this coast, no one
has landed more openly. You do not come like thieves in the night,
and your faces speak to me of some honest purpose. And I can plain-
ly see that your prince, who stands head and shoulders higher than
the rest of you, has the look of a hero about him, of great nobility and
grace. Yet you are not known to us. Certainly Hrothgar has had no
warning of your coming. So tell me your names and declare your in-
tent frankly so I may know whether to let you pass or not.”
Beowulf spoke up then, opening his heart honestly to the Danish
coastguardsman. “We have come here from my lord Hygelac, king of
the Geats, your ally and your good friend. All the world knows of the
piteous misfortune that has befallen this land, of that marauding
monster Grendel and all his murderous massacres. We have come
here to destroy him if we can. So lead us to Hrothgar, that great and
glorious guardian of his people. Take us to Heorot, the heart of his
kingdom, and take us there as fast as possible. There is no time to
lose.”
“You sound to me and you look to me like a man of your word,”
replied the coastguard. “So accepting all in good faith, I will bring
you myself to Heorot, to my lord Hrothgar, who will, I know, rejoice
at your coming. Meanwhile, while you are gone on your great and
noble quest, my men will see to it that your ship is well guarded.”
So in war-dress of chain-mail shirts, carrying their long ashen
spears and great war-shields, Beowulf and his warriors left their ship
anchored fast in the lee of the cliff and marched inland, their helmets
gleaming bright in the afternoon sun—strong helmets that would
surely protect them against the worst any enemy could do, or so they
thought. On they went until they saw at long last, in the distance,
Hrothgar’s home, Heorot, that glorious palace adorned with glowing
gold, a house fit for any king on earth. Here the coastguardsman left

— 5 —
them, pointing the way. “I must return to resume my watch for sea-
raiders,” he said. “May the God we all love protect you in all you do,
wherever you go, and bring you safely back to your ship again, and
back to your hearth and home.”
Weary now from their long sea journey, Beowulf and his war-
band made their way up the stone path toward the great hall of Heo-
rot, where they were greeted at the gate by Wulfgar, Hrothgar’s her-
ald. “Lay aside your shields and spears,” he commanded them.
“Stack them against the wall, for you will have no need of them in-
side. I see friendship in your eyes, nobility in your bearing, and know
that we have nothing to fear from you. But tell me who you are and
what you’ve come for, dressed as you are for war.”
“I am Beowulf, prince of the Geats, nephew of Hygelac the king,
and if you would kindly allow us to speak face to face with Hrothgar,
your gracious king, we will explain to him in full the purpose of our
sea-tossed journey to the land of the Danes.” Wulfgar the herald was
as wise in judgment as he was fierce in war, and let them at once into
Heorot to meet Hrothgar, his beloved master, gray-haired now with
sorrowing.
“These men, grim though they may look in their mail-armor,
have come in peace—I am sure of it, my king,” Wulfgar declared be-
fore the king and his thanes. “Chief among them, and the renowned
prince of the Geats, is the noble Beowulf, nephew of Hygelac, your
friend and ally of a lifetime. Such a trusty man can only have come to
help us, I think.”
Sudden hope warmed the old king’s heart as he looked upon Be-
owulf standing there before him. “You will not remember me,” he
said. “I knew you once as a child, when I came to the land of the
Geats. Ever since then, the Geats have been my lifelong friends and
allies. You are most heartily welcome to Heorot, for I know of you by
hearsay also. Everyone here does. I heard tell that you possess the
strength of at least thirty men in each hand. I am thinking, and I am
hoping and I am praying, that you might have been sent here to us by

— 6 —
God himself as our salvation, to stand against Grendel, that fiend of
the night. Perhaps, Beowulf, it is only you who have the power to
deal the monster the deathblow we long for, the end he so richly de-
serves.”
Mighty in his ring-meshed mail and gloriously helmed in silver,
Beowulf stood tall before Hrothgar and his thanes, every one of them
praying too that this man would indeed prove to be their earthly re-
deemer, their strong avenger. They listened well as he spoke. “I have
come, great king of the Danes,” Beowulf began, “as Hygelac’s hearth-
kinsman, and in his name I am here to serve you as I have served him
in many a battle. All the Geats have heard of your plight, of this evil
Grendel, who, after the shadows fall, prowls this hall, making of it his
nightly lair. From seafarers and travelers we have learned how each
night this most splendid of mead-halls must be surrendered to Gren-
del, the night stalker, how he preys foully on your people, eating
their flesh, drinking their blood. I am no poet, my lord king, nor a
harp player. I am a fighter. I am known at home and wherever I go as
a warrior-prince, as an enemy of all evil. Only last year I dealt death
to five giants who threatened our land, breaking their necks with my
bare hands. I did the same to dozens of sea-serpents who plagued
our waters. If I could do that much, I thought, then I could go over
the sea to you, great Hrothgar, and offer to rid you of Grendel, this
vile and loathsome destroyer. Why, I thought, should I not face him
in a trial of strength and destroy the destroyer? So I stand here in
Heorot, your kingly hall and home, with my good companions, ready
and willing to serve you. All of us are strong and steadfast in our de-
termination to drive out this evil once and for all, to bring peace and
joy again to your kingdom, and to restore you at last to your rightful
hearth. Be assured, I shall do all that is in my power to achieve this. It
is my promise.”
All their long-lingering sorrow was banished as Hrothgar and his
thanes listened to Beowulf’s brave words and, looking upon him, no
one there doubted for one moment that Beowulf could achieve and

— 7 —
would achieve all he promised. “I have heard,” Beowulf went on,
“that Grendel never carries a weapon, no war-ax, no sword, on his
murderous missions. Well then, neither will I. I seek no advantage. I
need no advantage. I will carry no shield, nor wear any armor. I shall
go up against this beast bareheaded, just as I fought the giants and
sea-serpents. With my bare hands I shall grapple with this foul fiend
and fight him to the death. Whichever of us dies must face the Lord
of Judgment, as we all must when the time comes. I ask only that,
should the worst befall me, send to Hygelac, my king, this battle-shirt
of chain mail I now wear. There will, I fear, be nothing of us left to
bury, should this flesh-eating monster prevail over us. In that case,
from all I hear, he would carry off our bloody corpses to his unlovely
larder and feast on us as he has on so many brave men before us. But
God willing it will not turn out like that.”
Hrothgar rose slowly to his feet. “You cannot imagine what joy
you bring us in coming here to Heorot,” he cried. “For me and for all
of Denmark, it is truly a blessed and timely arrival. You shall, I prom-
ise you, be well rewarded for your kindness, your concern for us, and
your great courage. We have been for twelve long years a people in
pain, with nothing but fear and hate in our hearts. Sadly my hall and
hearth-companions have been sorely dwindled in numbers by the
ravages of this ruthless killer. So many have tried to stand against
him. Their courage whetted by beer, each roared his defiance, boast-
ing, ale cup in hand, that he would wait here in Heorot after nightfall
and tear the evil one limb from limb when he came. But when morn-
ing came, it was always the same gruesome story. Heorot had be-
come a slaughterhouse yet again, the walls blood-spattered and the
floors blood-soaked, and my dear brave kinsmen all gone as meat to
the monster’s lair. But none of these was as mighty a warrior as you,
Beowulf. They had courage in full measure, but not the strength. You
have both. So bring your men, sit down, eat with us and drink with
us. Tell us the stories of your great exploits, for just to hear them
would fill our hearts with new hope and happiness.”

— 8 —
 Then a space was cleared at the banqueting table for Beowulf and
his Geats, and the horn of sweet mead was passed around from Geat
to Dane and Dane to Geat. That evening the poet stood and sang his
words, and the harp played softly, and the lilting lute and laughter
echoed once again through the rafters of Heorot.
There were, it was true, some envious looks cast at Beowulf and
his Geatish warriors, and some envious words too. Among the Dan-
ish thanes, a few did not care to be outshone in this manner and felt
their honor threatened. Some challenged Beowulf openly, question-
ing his proud claim that he would succeed in this fight where they
had not, especially, they said, if he faced Grendel unarmed, as he had
proposed he would. Stung at these insults, Beowulf spoke up strong-
ly in his own defense: “Do not worry yourselves on our account.
We’ll soon show this monster Grendel strength, courage, and a firm-
ness of purpose he has never met before. Just because you have
failed, don’t imagine for one moment that we shall do the same. We
are made of sterner stuff than you think. Mark my words, by daylight
the reign of this terror-tyrant will be over. We have come to do this,
and with God’s help we shall achieve it.”
The more Hrothgar, that kind and generous king, that great fa-
ther-protector and shepherd of all the Danes, heard, the more he
hoped, and then believed, that Beowulf could better the beast that
night. Doubts disappeared and all envy too, as the harp music rose to
the rafters and laughter echoed once again about the great mead-hall.
Bearing the precious treasure-cup, Hrothgar’s queen came now to
Heorot to meet these Geatish heroes, to greet and honor them. But to
the peerless Hrothgar, her husband and her beloved, she offered the
treasure-cup first, and afterward gave the cup to each of them, irre-
spective of age or rank, for she was always gracious and kind to all.
Then to Beowulf she came, glittering in her regal beauty, her arm-
rings glowing gloriously. Offering him the cup, she thanked him
warmly, and the good Lord who had sent him, for coming so nobly
to their aid.

— 9 —
 Accepting the treasure-cup and her thanks most graciously, Beo-
wulf rose to speak. “We have come here, my lady, rowed and sailed
our way across the surging seas for only one reason: to carry out the
wishes of great Hrothgar, your husband and king, and our friend and
perfect ally, to accomplish the death of this Grendel and end forever
the terror that stalks this place and all your people, or to fail in the
attempt and so meet our end.”
No words had ever sounded sweeter to this lady, this splendid
queen of the Danes. The poet sang then of the victory to come, of the
foul fiend destroyed and evil banished, and Geat and Dane alike
raised their rousing voices till all Heorot resounded once more to the
ringing rafters. But now, as he looked out, Hrothgar saw the shadows
lengthening and knew that the time was coming to quit the hall. He
knew, as they all did, that outside in the falling dark, which would
very soon drown the world, the dreaded monster was leaving his lair
again, was already gliding through the brooding shadows toward
Heorot.
Hrothgar and Beowulf, great heroes both, saluted each other in
love, and, in parting, Hrothgar spoke his last words: “I now hand
over Heorot to you, brave Beowulf, to have and to hold through this
night. Guard it well. I know that in the fight to come, you will stretch
every sinew, summon up all the strength and all the courage you
possess. In return, should you survive and the beast be destroyed, I
promise before everyone here that I will show you more generosity
than a king ever showed before to any man.” So saying, Hrothgar
and his queen led the Danes from the hall. Only Beowulf and his
Geatish thanes remained, charged now with the safety of the king-
dom. “The time is soon coming. So let each of us put our trust in
God,” said Beowulf to his men, “but in our strength and fighting
skills also. Do this and we shall not fail.” And with that, he took off
his coat of mail and his helmet, as he had vowed to do. He unbuckled
his war-sword too, and then gave all his armor and weapons to his
faithful attendant.

— 10 —
 Before going to their beds, the Geats gathered one last time, set
forehead to forehead, drinking deep of one another’s courage, fiercer
now than ever in their fiery determination. “We ask the Lord to bless
our endeavors tonight,” Beowulf whispered. “Remember that we
fight this fight in His name. It would be easy to come at the beast
with weapons. But I shall cut short this monster’s life with my own
God-given strength. Let God choose which of us shall triumph, and
we have no fear of losing. Believe that, my friends, and we shall
win.”
So Beowulf went to his bed, and his men too, but in truth they
slept only fitfully, for there was not one of them, not even Beowulf
himself, who could be certain how the night would end, whether any
of them would ever again see the light of dawn. They knew well
enough how many brave Danes this Grendel creature had dragged
lifeless and bleeding from Heorot, how unlikely it was that some, or
all, of them would ever again see their hearth and home. In silent
prayer, each of them placed his life in the hands of his Almighty
Maker, who had from the very beginning ruled supreme in all the
affairs of men.
Up from his lair and through the shadows came Grendel, this
stalker of the night, while in Heorot the warriors lay turn-tossed in
their sleep, only one of them left on ever watchful guard, every mo-
ment steeling himself for the ordeal of battle he knew must very soon
come. And it was coming too. Grendel came gliding through swirling
moorland cloud-mists, death-dealing in his hate-filled heart, thirsting
to kill again that night as he had so often before. Down from the for-
est came Grendel now; he saw the mead-house and scented the sweet
flesh of those inside—easy victims, as easy as before, he thought.
Had the monster known what awaited him there, he would most
surely have thought twice, slunk back to his lair, and never returned,
for this would be the last time the beast was ever to go out on a kill-
ing spree. Never more would the terror-tyrant stalk the land. Now it
was his turn to suffer the panic of fear, and the pain of death-agony.

— 11 —
So the giver of death and destruction would become the receiver at
last. He did not know it yet, though, and came on unawares to Heo-
rot.
Rage-wracked, on wreckage bent, Grendel ripped open the iron-
studded doors—they were no hindrance to him. He scanned the dark
hall through fire-blazing eyes, saw the slumbering thanes, still
drowsy in sleep, the solitary, startled sentry, the whole war-band.
Rejoicing at the prospect of another flesh-feast, this vile and vengeful
creature laughed out loud at his good fortune. He would tear each
and every one of them to pieces, stain Heorot’s floor once more with
the lifeblood. A night of gore and gluttonous pleasure lay ahead of
him, or so it seemed. And so it began, too, as he snatched up the first
Geatish sentry he saw—Handscio he was called—and simply tore
him apart, bolting his flesh in great gobbets, gnawing and gnashing
on his bones, stripping the meat, sucking the veins, until, in mo-
ments, nothing of the poor helpless man was left, not a hair of his
head, not a hand, not a foot, not even a nail.
That was just the beginning for him, Grendel thought. Onto his
next victim he pounced at once, reaching out to grab him with his
killing claws. But now he was met with a grip of steel, a grip harder,
tighter, than he had ever known, that seized him, held him fast by the
arm. Locked in the vise of this grip, he could not break free, however
much he struggled, and he knew at once that he had met his match.
Filled with sudden fear, the monster struggled again and again to
unloose this fist, yearning only now to be away from Heorot and
home again in the safety of his lair. Vainly he tried to pull away, but
Beowulf’s fingers fastened harder still in an ever-tightening grip
around that callous killer’s arm.
How Grendel longed to get out, to escape to the forests and fens,
but no power on this earth could force Beowulf to release his grip.
Now Grendel, this merciless, murderous ogre, knew that he should
never have come this night, that his death was coming, and that de-
spite all his efforts to tear himself away, there was nothing he could

— 12 —
do to prevent it, no way he could save himself. Fear of this death
drove him mad with anger, and anger only made him stronger; he
would fight to the death to save himself. He would never give in.
It was amazing that the great hall of Heorot was not split asunder
that night, so ferocious was the wrestling between these two giants.
Locked together in this deadly embrace, they reeled and writhed
about the mead-hall, so that all the Danes outside could hear a dread-
ful cacophony of crashing and crying resounding through Heorot.
Gold-worked trappings and iron braces, all well-made and sturdy,
simply snapped and buckled as the two of them in deadly earnest
wrestled and grappled and struggled with each other. There was no
ground given in this terrible fight, nor mercy either. So they fought
on, this Grendel now fear-soaked, his strength failing him, and brave
Beowulf, fist still clenched around the monster’s arm and knowing he
had only to cling on and not let go to banish to hell forever the
damned one, God’s and his own worst enemy. Outside, they clearly
heard the monster’s demon scream, his hideous, howling screech.
The sound of it chilled every listener to the bone, yet hope gladdened
them too, for these they knew were not human cries but rather the
strident sobbing of the beast in agony and terror.
Seeing Grendel thus pinioned by the Geatish hero, thus tortured
and weakened by his pain, Beowulf’s companions-in-arms drew their
swords and sprang now to his side to help him in his fight, to finish if
they could this murderer’s wretched life. They were not to know, Be-
owulf’s battle-friends, that no manmade sword, no steel, could pierce
this cruel creature’s enchanted hide. Only naked strength could end
his unnatural life. Grendel understood this, and he knew he was
weakening, that his end must be near. He could think of no possible
way to escape. Greathearted Beowulf, sensing his sagging strength,
still had the beast by the arm; now he twisted it and turned it until
the shoulder muscles split apart, the tendons snapped, the bone joints
burst, and Grendel’s arm was ripped and wrenched, bleeding, from
his body.

— 13 —
 Then Grendel fled, armless and half-dead already, from Heorot.
Over the moors he staggered and stumbled, through the fens back to
his den, knowing all the while that this was his last day on earth, that
his life’s blood was draining from him. He was dying his death.
So Beowulf the Good had triumphed in his bitter fight with
Grendel the Evil One. Thus were all Danish hopes fulfilled and Beo-
wulf’s promise to them too. He had destroyed the great destroyer
with his bare hands, saved Hrothgar’s royal mead-house and the
Danish people from further terrors, and given them back the sanctu-
ary of their hearth and their home. So that everyone should know
that the tyrant was truly dead and their grief finally at an end, the
hero hung high in the gables of Heorot, where all could see it and
marvel at it too, that whole torn-off limb—shoulder, arm, and hand—
gruesome witness to the monster’s violent end.
By the next morning, the news of the great fight at Heorot had
spread throughout the land. They came in their hundreds from the
seashore, from the fens and moors and mountains, from near and far
to see this hideous limb hanging there in the hall, and then to follow
the fiendish foe’s last footprints through the shadowy forest and the
moor-mist, tracking the trail of blood to the monster’s marsh-pool. To
this remote and dismal place the dying monster had come only hours
before, the last of his blood ebbing fast with every faltering step. Here
he had dived to his miserable death, his hot wound-blood bubbling
and boiling in the brackish waves. So he had sunk at last to his cav-
ernous lair below, and had died there alone in his agony, to be wel-
comed back in hell, where he belonged.
Beowulf’s marvelous feat was now the talk of Heorot and all the
Danish lands beyond. None was his equal, they said, none braver,
nor more worthy, even, to be king here in Denmark in his own right.
And this was not said to slight great Hrothgar, for he was a good and
much-loved king of his people, but only in praise of Beowulf and his
great courage and strength. That day the poet wove his word-song,
told the story of the hero in glowing, golden language, rang the

— 14 —
word-changes, and all who were there remembered and told it again
and again, so that their children and their children’s children should
never forget his daring deeds, nor the noble name of Beowulf either.
That evening all were summoned to Heorot, to that splendid
mead-hall freed now forever from Grendel’s evil reign and cleansed
of the night’s horrors. Beowulf the Great, as guest of honor, came in
with Hrothgar the king, and his glorious queen, with all her maidens
following. And gathering there now too, thronging Hrothgar’s happy
hall, were all the thanes and warriors, anyone who could find a place,
each of them gazing in awe at the sight of Grendel’s dreadful arm
hanging there from the rafters. But it was not chiefly this grisly re-
minder they had come for, but to see Beowulf, their great champion,
sitting beside good King Hrothgar, and to show their joyous triumph
and their relief at this timely and blessed deliverance.
Taking his stand on the steps, his queen and Beowulf on either
side, Hrothgar began his speech of thanks, and all there listened to
every gracious word. “Let our thanks be first to God above for his
mercy. To the master of heaven and master of this earth, worker of all
miracles, for it is he who has brought Grendel to his death at last. I
will be honest with you. Until yesterday, until Beowulf came, I
doubted whether Grendel—and I curse his name for all the grief he
brought to us—could ever be overcome, whether this loveliest of
mead-halls could ever be truly ours again, whether the damned de-
mon’s bloodletting slaughter could ever be brought to an end. Then
God sent us this man, this hero among men, now here at my side, the
noble Beowulf, and his companions-in-arms, and together they have
achieved in one night what we had tried and failed to do in twelve
long years of sorrow. What mother would not have been proud to
have borne such a son as this? What father does not yearn for a son
like Beowulf? So Beowulf, best of men, from this moment I cherish
you as I would my own son. And as I promised before, anything that
is in my gift you shall have—it will be small reward for your great
service to us all. Know also that your deeds will bring you greater

— 15 —
riches still, which are my undying honor and gratitude and love, and
that of all my people too. May Almighty God grant you always the
success you enjoyed last night wherever you go, whatever the fight,
whoever the foe may be.” And the cheering that followed this rang
loud in the rafters of Heorot, and was silenced only when Beowulf
himself began to speak. It was not at all in a proud or boasting tone—
that was never his way.
“We came here willingly, my warriors and I, to challenge the evil
one on your behalf, and with God’s help we prevailed. Yet I am sorry
that you see hanging up there only his arm. I should have preferred
you to have seen the rest of him here too. I tried my utmost to hold
him fast, to squeeze the life out of him, but I did not have a good
enough grip on him to prevent his escape. By tearing himself away
and leaving behind his arm, he must have hoped to save himself
from death, wretched creature. But God did not wish it, and so the
fiend lives no more. He will no more haunt your land or plague your
people. Like any other murderous criminal, he awaits now God’s
own justice. We may have his arm, but God has his evil soul and will
do with him as he pleases.”
All the talk was then of the fine words they had just heard, and of
what a furious fight it must have been during that perilous night
when Beowulf destroyed the beast. Long they gazed at the grotesque
arm up there, at the horrible hand and fearsome fingers, the nails as
strong and sharp as steel, each one a spur-talon, each a vicious war-
weapon for gouging and gashing. They shuddered to look at it, to
think what damage it could do, and marveled once again at Beo-
wulf’s bravery.
Then Hrothgar the king ordered the banqueting hall to be made
ready at once for a feast. How willingly they went to work to prepare
the place, adorning it richly from golden gable to shining floor. They
hung glowing, gold-wrought tapestries. They mended or covered all
the damage and destruction that the greatest of all mead-halls had

— 16 —
suffered the night before, and prepared a great feast of thanksgiving,
as the king had commanded.
That evening when all was ready, into that happy hall came
Hrothgar and Beowulf again. All around them now, on the mead-
benches, sat the thanes and warriors and as many of the good people
of Denmark as the benches would allow. Hrothgar’s queen was there,
of course, and all her ladies, and all the Geatish warriors too. And all
rejoiced and feasted as never before, the mead-cup passing from
hand to hand, until Heorot was filled once more with the laughter of
friends, with sweet song and marvelous music, with unbounded joy.
Then, offering him the cup, the queen spoke to Hrothgar. “Now,
my lord and king, to these Geats speak graciously and generously,
and let your gift-promise not be forgotten now, for Heorot is ours
again, cleansed of evil and bright again with joy.” She came next with
the cup to Beowulf, where he sat between her two sons, Hrethric and
Hrothmund. And when he had drunk, then came the time of gifts.
Two arm-wreaths were brought, and robes and more gold rings, but
best of all, the richest collar, the finest prize, more ornate and finely
wrought than any I ever saw, the most treasured jewel Hrothgar pos-
sessed, worn on the neck of great war-kings and heroes, a fabled col-
lar for an already fabled warrior. “It is no more than you deserve,
Beowulf,” said Hrothgar’s fair queen, and all listened when she
spoke and agreed wholeheartedly. “May good fortune come with
these jewels, and may the rest of your life be always filled with hap-
piness and prosperity. And may treasure come your way often and in
large amounts! Be strong, but be gentle too, and a wise guardian too
to my two boys. By them, and by me and my lord Hrothgar, your
name will be held in honor and love till the end of time.”
How they cheered the queen’s words then, those thanes and
lords and ladies, and what a sumptuous feast it was of wine and
food, and all held in a perfect harmony of joy and hope. They did not
know then that the joy would be short-lived, the hope destroyed even
before the night was over.

— 17 —
 — Part Two —

Beowulf and the Sea-Hag

As the night-shadows fell over Heorot, Hrothgar and his queen

escorted Beowulf and all the Geatish heroes to their beds, leaving the
great mead-hall in the care of the thanes of Denmark. They cleared
away the benches and spread the floor with beds and bolsters and, as
they had so often done before, made a dormitory of the great hall.
Out of habit these warriors kept their weapons near at hand, always
ready for war, their shields and hand-swords at their sides, and, on
the benches nearby, their mail-coats, their mighty helmets and spears.
But not one of them expected any attack that night. Safe in their hall,
or so they thought, they fell asleep at once and slept soundly. It was a
sleep they would pay for dearly and soon.
For Grendel had a mother, a murderous hag, as hideous a mon-
ster as her fiend of a son. Now she was a bereaved mother out for
revenge, maddened by her loss, and she would be savage in her grief.
With vengeance brimming in her soul, she came to Heorot in the
dead of that night, all the Danish lords fast asleep inside, each lost in
his dreams. How quickly were these dreams turned into a sudden
nightmare! She may not have had the monster strength of her son,
but she was thirsting for blood as she came in among them and pow-
erful in her fury. The thanes quickly roused themselves from their
slumbers and sprang at once to arms to fight her off, but they were
not quick enough. She tore down Grendel’s arm, that hideous trophy,
but so precious to her. She snatched up the sleeping Ashhere, Hroth-
gar’s most favorite lord, and then, seeing so many swords raised
against her, made her escape. She had to be satisfied with this one
kill. It was revenge enough for her. Away over the high moors she
went in the darkness, clutching in her fierce embrace the bleeding
Ashhere, and found her way back to her distant fen to gorge herself

— 18 —
on his flesh. How sweet was the taste of vengeance to this horrible
hag.
Meanwhile all Heorot was in uproar. Swiftly summoned to the
hall, Hrothgar heard the dreaded news that Ashhere was dead and
gone, his beloved friend murdered. He called at once for Beowulf.
Who else would he turn to? Ashhere could not be saved, not now.
Not even Beowulf, that victory-blessed Geat, could do that, but if an-
yone could destroy this demon-mother, it was him. The wise old
king, distraught with sadness, opened his word-hoard and spoke his
heart to the Geatish prince. “Ashhere was my hearth-companion, my
best and oldest friend. Side by side we stood in many a bloody battle,
striking for our lives, for each other. And now he’s dead, no more
than a meal-feast for Grendel’s blood-lusting mother. Last night for
us you killed her son, tore the life out of him, and now she has had
her grim revenge. I do not know and I cannot tell where she has gone
to, but country people have often told stories of two such ogres
haunting the high moors and mists. One of them, it was said, was
more woman in shape than man—a twisted monster-woman, they
said, a giant of a creature, demonic and unnatural. The other they
called Grendel, that fiend from hell you so bravely destroyed. We
thought at first that these were mere imaginings—stories told by
simple people with simple minds. How wrong we were, and how
bitterly we have paid for it. They never spoke of a father to this mon-
ster—though all of them said he must have been the very devil him-
self. But time and again they saw a mother looming out of the moor-
mists.
“None of them ever dared venture to this hidden place where the
monster and his mother lived, for it is known to be a place of wolves,
of wild moors, dark fells, and perilous paths. Somewhere there, they
said, a torrent of water plunges into the deep earth to make an un-
derground channel that passes through vaulting caverns. Here these
ogres had their loathsome lair. It is no distance from here, but no man
of sense has ever ventured near the place. Even a wounded stag, hard

— 19 —
pressed by baying hounds hot on his scent, would rather face the
hounds’ tearing teeth than plunge into that bottomless stream. Some-
times I have heard that these waters stir themselves into such a rage
that they swirl up into the clouds and the whole earth weeps in ter-
ror.
“I have no one else to turn to. If you dare, as you dared before,
then find this hideous sea-hag, seek her out in her unlovely lair, and
destroy her. I shall reward you as I did before, with golden treasures
from my hoard. My generosity will be even greater this time, I assure
you.”
Then Beowulf, Edgetheow’s noble son, replied, “For a fighting
man like me, daring is everything. How else will a fighting man be
remembered if he does not dare? I cannot banish your grief, great
king. But I can and will avenge your loss. Of that you can be sure. I
shall quickly find where this hag of hell has gone to. And I promise
there will be nowhere she can hide, no fold in the field, no ditch, for-
est, or craggy cleft, no watery haven, nowhere. However deep she
dives, I shall find her, and when I do, your revenge and mine will be
swift and sure.”
So they rode out after her together, Danish king and Geatish he-
ro, their lords and thanes beside them, their shield-bearers marching
alongside. It was not difficult to see which way she had gone. Along
woodland paths, over the high moors foul with fog they traced her
bloody steps, following where she had gone before, dragging her
bloody victim. The trail narrowed between the cliffs, and the path
here was tortuous and treacherous. Up over the scree they went then
and down again onto the fens, a haunted, dreadful place where no
one could ever live, nor would ever wish to live.
Sensing danger all around them now, Beowulf and his warriors
went ahead to scout the land. They came then to a cheerless cluster of
ash trees by a rushing stream that tumbled beneath a rocky crag, and
beyond that they found a dark, deep lake, stained with blood. And all
knew at once whose blood it was. Worse evidence was to come, for

— 20 —
they saw left there on the edge of the cliff the most grievous sight:
Ashhere’s head. Stirred to new fury, they let out an eager battle cry,
sounded the war-horn loud and long so that the whole world could
hear their anger.
Roused and enraged by the challenge of the battle-horn, a giant
sea-serpent slithered to the surface. They saw now that the lake was
teeming with serpents, and with countless strangely writhing water-
snakes too. This place was truly a home of monsters. Beowulf at once
let loose an arrow, the iron tip striking home to its mark, deep in the
sea-serpent’s throat. Other spears then rained down until the body of
this wave-lurker was dragged lifeless to the shore. Grisly, grim, and
gruesome—no one word could describe this ghoul of the deep. Eve-
ryone there was happy to see that he was dead, I can tell you. But
others were there, skulking shadows of the deep, waiting for Beo-
wulf, waiting for their moment to strike.
Beowulf now made himself ready for the fight that lay ahead of
him, putting on first his heavily mailed shirt, so strong that no enemy
could pierce it. On his head he set a splendid silver helmet that
would protect him and ward off the worst of the blows. Wonderfully
crafted it was, adorned with gold, richly carved all around with wild
boars at bay—no sword-swipe had ever breached its stern defense.
Unferth, Hrothgar’s herald and counselor, then handed him a hilted
sword—Hrunting, he called it—a sword unlike any other, ancient,
tried, and tested, wave-patterned, iron-edged, imbued over the years
with the blood and venom of those it had destroyed. This sword had
never failed any hero before. Beowulf clutched it keenly, eager now
to face the foe.
But first he spoke to silver-haired Hrothgar, close beside him:
“The time has come, great king, to test again my courage and my
strength. Remember, wise lord, all that we agreed before the fight
with Grendel, that should I die in your service, you will be like a fa-
ther to me when I am gone, protecting my hearth-companions and
sending what gifts you have granted me, kind Hrothgar, to my lord

— 21 —
Hygelac for his safekeeping. Being his servant, you will understand
that all I have is his. It will show him how generous you have been,
how you keep your word, and he will love you for it. And let Unferth
have back Hrunting, the blade he just gave me. It should rightly be
his again. With Hrunting I shall kill the ogress or die in the attempt.
Let God choose between us.”
With these words, Beowulf, that daring prince, dived into the
lake and disappeared. So deep was the perilous pool that it seemed to
take forever before he saw the bottom and felt it with his feet. And
there that blood-greedy hag of the deep was waiting for him. Ready
in ambush, she sprang on him, fastening him at once with her hellish
hooks. But although he was caught, Beowulf was so far unharmed,
for her clenched claws could not pierce his mail-shirt and draw
blood.
The sea-hag dragged the prince, pinioned and helpless in her
grasp, to her cavernous lair. Try as he did, Beowulf could not even
draw his sword to defend himself against this water-wolf, nor against
the onslaught of twisting sea-monsters now slashing at him with
their tearing tusks, which threatened to rip away his life-saving bat-
tle-coat. Still held fast in her deadly embrace, Beowulf found himself
hauled to the surface into a vaulted cavern lit all around with fires of
hell, it seemed, but at least he could breathe again and was free of the
pressing weight of water. At least now he would not simply be swept
away and drowned. Then he looked up and saw the monstrous size
of this hideous sea-hag—he had felt her strength already. Undaunt-
ed, he saw his chance. He broke free of her, tore himself away, drew
Hrunting, circled it high above him, and brought it screaming down
on her head, sure it must be her death stroke. But Hrunting, that bat-
tle-hardened, all-powerful sword that had sliced so easily through
helmet and mail, could not bite this monster’s hoary hide but simply
bounced off, leaving her flesh unharmed, unscathed, unmarked even.
Never before had Hrunting failed a warrior in a fight as it had now.

— 22 —
 But Beowulf, intent on victory, was not in the least downhearted.
Rather his courage was renewed, his ferocity sharpened. Seeing that
its blade-edge would be useless, the hero flung Hrunting aside and
trusted now, as he had before, to his own strength, to the God-given
power in his hands. Now was not the moment to think of saving his
life. Now would be his time of testing, his achieving of everlasting
glory.
Anger steeled his strength; fury fired his determination, stirred
him to action. Beowulf hurled himself at Grendel’s mother, grabbed
her by the shoulder, and threw her bodily to the ground. But in a
moment she repaid him fully, grasping him with her horrible hand-
hooks, so that he stumbled and fell, too weary now to save himself.
At once she was astride him. He was at her mercy. She snatched up
her dagger. Now she would avenge her boy, her only son. With a
scream of triumph she struck, but the mail-shirt shielded him from
the sharp-edged blade, from the deadly point. Again and again she
stabbed and slashed, but Beowulf’s blessed battle-shirt did not fail
him. Without it, the Geat hero would certainly have been slaughtered
there and then. But God, looking down, saved him, and gave him the
victory.
Summoning the last of his strength, Beowulf threw her off and
leaped to his feet, and there above him on the wall he saw hanging an
ancient war-trophy, a giant sword, so huge, so heavy, that only a gi-
ant could wield it in battle-play. But this death-defying champion,
this Geatish hero, was boiling with war-fury. Like this, he was as
strong as any giant, and he knew it. He sprung to the wall, caught up
the sword by its hilt, and whirling it once above his head, the blade
singing out its death-song, he brought it down on her neck, cutting
clear through bone and flesh in one blow. Her death-agony was
swift, and when it was done, she lay at his feet, stilled by death, Beo-
wulf’s giant sword hot with her fiendish blood. It was over; it was
done. The monster-mother was united in death at last with her mon-
ster-son.

— 23 —
 Looking about him now in that hellhole, Beowulf saw scattered
there the wretched remains of Hrothgar’s brave hearth-companions,
those that Grendel had murdered as they slept in Heorot hall. He saw
too where Grendel himself lay, stiff in death, his lifeblood long ago
drained from him. There was one more task for this giant sword. Be-
owulf, the fiercest of champions, finished the task and severed Gren-
del’s hideous head with a single swipe.
Way up above, in the light of day, Hrothgar and his thanes,
hearts heavy with anxiety, watched and waited by the pool. Fearful
too were the Geatish warriors for their prince, especially when they
saw blood bubbling up from the depths, marbling the surface of the
water. Many long hours had passed now since Beowulf dived down
into the deep, and most now believed that the famous hero could not
this time be triumphant, but that the she-wolf, that devilish sea-hag,
had at last done him to death.
As dusk came down over that dreary place, Hrothgar and his
thanes turned sadly for home and hearth, all hope now abandoned.
But the Geats stayed, stunned with grief, hoping against hope to see
once more their beloved leader; but they knew well enough now that
they would not.
Down below in the ogres’ lair, Beowulf looked about him in
wonder at the heaped hoard of treasures, blood-booty of that
damned pair. Much good it was to them now. The Geat hero took
none of these treasures when he left, only the head of Grendel;
Hrunting, the sword that had failed him; and the hilt of the giant
sword that had done the she-wolf to death. Only the hilt remained of
this deadly war-weapon—the engraved blade itself had simply been
melted away by the hot blood of the doomed fiend that lay headless
there.
So Beowulf, that sainted survivor, plunged once more into the
deep and with powerful strokes swam upward through the water,
unhindered now by sea-serpents and writhing monsters of the deep,
for the pool was now cleansed of these vile creatures, gone where all

— 24 —
evil goes, where Grendel and his mother had gone, down to hell it-
self, where they belonged, never to return again.
The first his faithful companions saw of their beloved prince was
his silver war-helmet breaking the waves. Then, with spirits high and
with joy, they rushed to the water’s edge to help him, wondering at
his battle trophies, all of them thanking God for his victory and his
safe return unharmed to their side. Quickly they loosened his mail-
shirt and helmet, and all welcomed him joyously, good friends and
loyal hearth-companions. So they left that dreadful pool behind
them, blood-red from shore to shore, and still as death. It was a place
all of them were happy to leave, Beowulf most of all.
A bold spring in their step, carefree now at heart, they followed
the well-trodden path back toward Heorot. It was a triumphant pro-
cession, but a slow one, for that heavy head, Grendel’s hideous head,
had to be carried, and it was no easy matter, I can assure you. It took
four of the strongest Geats to hold the spear steady, the dreaded head
stuck high on the point, glaring in death all around it as they went.
So with Grendel’s head aloft they made their way to Heorot,
fourteen brave Geats, and the great warrior prince. Marching into
that splendid mead-hall they came, much to the surprise and joy of
everyone there. As Beowulf held up that monstrous head by its un-
lovely locks, it was indeed as ugly a thing as any there had seen, an
awesome sight, but one that no longer brought fear to their hearts,
only rapturous relief and great gratitude toward this prince of warri-
ors. They listened to him now, Hrothgar and his queen, and all the
gathered thanes.
“We have brought back for you, great king of Denmark, all these
trophies of our victory. They were heavy indeed to carry, but our
heart-song made light of the burden. I will not pretend to you that it
was easy, my lord. It was a close-run thing, this fight under water, a
fight I very nearly lost before it had begun. Hrunting, fine weapon
though it is, was useless against this she-wolf of the deep. But God
was with me, and I thank only him for my victory. I snatched up an-

— 25 —
other sword, a giant of a weapon, hanging there on the wall, and
with it I avenged all the murder and misery inflicted on you by this
family of fiends. First the monster’s head I severed, then this grisly
reminder still lying there from that earlier conflict. Your enemies are
dead. You have your peace back, so all of you may now sleep safely
in Heorot. We have seen the last of them, my lord king. Everyone
here can rest assured of that, I promise you.”
Then Beowulf presented to the silver-haired king the golden hilt,
all that remained of the giant sword that had done such damage in
the fight. So the hilt belonged fittingly to Hrothgar, the best and wis-
est of kings. He spoke now to the silent hall.
“Beowulf, my friend and best of men, your name and your nobili-
ty will resound throughout the world, even in the farthest corners. I
marvel not only at your strength but also at the wisdom of one so
young. Stay as generous and peaceable as you are, Beowulf. Do not
become as other heroes have before you, so tuned to battle that a
thirst for blood consumes you. I tell you this because I am old in
years and I know that all men, however noble and fine, are frail, and
our lives are finite. At the height of our powers, when triumph suc-
ceeds triumph, we cannot imagine an end to our success. Pride grows
within us, despite ourselves. We can easily forget that our powers are
God-given and should be used only in his service. Know, beloved
Beowulf, that even with you the end must come; flesh and strength
will fail. You are now in the high noon of your strength, but waiting
for you, and not so far away, is sickness maybe, or a slashing sword,
burning fire or drowning wave, the stab of a dagger, or just old age.
Death awaits us all. I thank God in his great mercy that my own
death has been postponed long enough for me to enjoy this moment,
the end of Grendel and his kind, to gaze in triumph at his gory head.
So, remembering all this, let us all rejoice and feast together tonight.
And in the morning I shall give you all your promised treasure.”
But they did not feast long that night, for Hrothgar the old king
was tired and wished to rest. No feast can continue without its host,

— 26 —
and the truth was that the Geatish prince was ready for his bed too.
He had earned his rest that night, I think. Battle-weary, the hero and
his thanes slept deeply until the black raven in the tree outside rau-
cously greeted the coming of the new day. Sunlight chased away the
shadows as the prince and his companions made ready to leave. Now
that the fight was done, they wanted to be home, every warrior
among them. They had been away long enough. Before he left, Beo-
wulf returned Hrunting to Unferth, the king’s herald, and thanked
him for the loan of it, without ever finding fault with the blade that
had failed him. Beowulf was like this: fierce in battle, but generous
and thoughtful in spirit. He did not want to hurt Unferth’s feelings.
Now dressed in their armor and prepared for the journey home,
Beowulf and his warriors went to Hrothgar to say their last farewells.
The Geatish hero spoke first: “You will understand, great Hrothgar,
how we long to return to Hygelac, to see once again our home and
hearth. You have looked after us royally. We shall not forget your
kindness. Know also, lord Hrothgar, that I shall always be ready to
come to your aid again if you should ever need me. If I hear you are
threatened by your neighbors or that any intend you harm, I shall
come back with a thousand warriors to help you. Hygelac, my young
king, lord of the Geats, would, I know, always want me to be at your
side, shoulder to shoulder, and defending you against your enemies,
along with a forest of sharpened Geatish spears, if ever you should
need us.”
Saddened at this parting, Hrothgar, wise in his great age, spoke
to Beowulf, knowing that it was unlikely he would ever set eyes on
his dear friend again. Tears filled his eyes as he embraced the Geatish
hero for the last time. He spoke to him as a father to his favorite son.
“I have never known a man at the same time so young and so wise.
In you, strength and wisdom are perfectly matched. How the Lord in
heaven has blessed you. If any ask me, I shall say this. Should, God
forbid, the Geats lose their renowned king through sword or sick-
ness, they could not want for a better prince than you to take his

— 27 —
place and rule over the kingdom. In coming here to help us, you have
brought our two peoples close together. By your courage you have
banished any lingering ancient rivalries between Dane and Geat. So
long as I am king, our ships will cross the seas between us filled not
with spears but only with gifts of friendship and love. We shall from
now on stand always fast together, Sea-Geats and Spear-Danes, firm
against our enemies.”
So Beowulf left, carrying with him twelve new treasures, those
promised parting gifts from the king to the Geatish hero, that dear
man, friend forever of the Danish king and his people. Gold-decked
and resplendent with rings he left them, and not a Dane who
watched him go believed the reward was any more than he deserved.
Now they came again to the seashore, sorrowing in their loss of
Handscio, their dead war-companion, and at the same time rejoicing
in all that had been achieved, and also in Hrothgar’s generosity to-
ward them. The coastguardsman who had greeted them days before
saw them coming again, these young warrior heroes in their war-
shirts and glittering helmets. He rode to greet them, guiding them to
the waiting sea-boat he had guarded so carefully for them. Once the
ship was loaded with horses and armor, and Hrothgar’s hoard of
gifts, Beowulf gave the coastguardsman a gift—a gold-hilted sword.
It was a gift I am sure the man treasured forever. Then a mist rose
high over the deck, the slack sail hoisted was soon wind-filled and
taut, and the ship’s timbers felt again the sea-surge. Out over the
waves the ship danced, rejoicing to feel again the foam at its throat.
Like the warriors, that sea-boat longed to be home, and it rode the
ocean, surf-skimmed the waves, until they saw at last the welcome
cliffs and headlands of home, a coast they knew and loved. A favora-
ble breeze brought them over the shallows and beached them safely
on shore.
Their coming had not gone unnoticed from those homeland cliffs.
Geatish coastguardsmen had long been watching for their return,
anxiously awaiting their beloved heroes. They were there on the

— 28 —
beach helping to moor the boat, to hold it fast so that no sea-surge
could harm this boat of heroes. They were there to help unload the
heroes’ golden hoard, marveling at the amount of it, at the richness of
it. They did not have far to carry it, for Hygelac, the Geatish king,
lived with his war-band close by the seawall itself.
News of their coming, of the hoard they carried, raced ahead of
them to Hygelac himself, brave king of all the Geats. Beowulf, his
nephew and greatest champion, his hearth-companion, had survived
his perilous quest and was returning home unscathed! By order of
Hygelac the mead-hall was cleared at once and prepared for Beowulf
and those honored Geatish heroes. As he saw Beowulf and his warri-
ors striding into the hall, Hygelac could scarcely contain his burning
curiosity to hear all about their adventures in Denmark and their mi-
raculous return.
After all the greetings were done—there never was such a
warmth of welcome—and the mead-cup had been offered around to
each and every one of these heroes, the two noble kinsmen, Hygelac
and Beowulf, sat down face to face, the one eager to know, the other
eager to tell. Hygelac leaned forward, longing to hear.
“Tell us now, beloved brave Beowulf, how you survived this bat-
tle in distant Heorot. I warned you, did I not, of the dangers that lay
ahead of you in Denmark. ‘Do not go, dear friend,’ I said, ‘and face
that murderous monster Grendel.’ Those were my very words, if I
remember. Yet you did not listen to my advice. You were determined
to help Hrothgar, a friend in need, and I confess now that I much
admired you for it. Tell me now all that happened. Live it for us
again, so we may know all you have done while you were gone.”
So Beowulf told his story to his king—of how the Geats had been
so royally welcomed to Heorot, that great mead-hall, of Grendel’s
coming by night, how Handscio had been snatched up half asleep
and ground to death in Grendel’s jaws. “I grappled with this beast
bare-handed, my lord Hygelac,” said Beowulf, “grasped his arm and
would not let him go. When he tore himself away, still I held his sev-

— 29 —
ered arm. Perhaps he thought he had escaped. But it was his death-
wound, his life’s blood draining out of him deep in his watery lair. So
that monster died, and so I avenged all the hurt he had done to
Hrothgar and the Danes. And generously that king rewarded me, just
as he had promised, with a treasure-hoard of gold, rich and finely
worked. And at Heorot all of us, Danish thanes and Geatish warriors,
rejoiced. But we rejoiced too soon, for out of the night came Grendel’s
vengeful mother, a fiend filled with fury. She struck down the first
she saw—Ashhere he was called—most beloved counselor and dear-
est hearth-companion to Hrothgar, the old king. So I went after her.
Seeking her lair, I plunged into the whirlpool of sea-serpents and
found her there, this gruesome guardian of the deep. Hand to hand
we fought. I was as near to death then as I have ever been. Saved on-
ly by God, and by a giant sword. With this I hewed off both their
hideous heads, made an end to that family of monsters, slew the last
of Satan’s children, and brought peace again to Hrothgar and the
Danish people. For all this, the fair and generous king presented us
with more treasures still, all of which, brave king, I have carried back
for you, who are my only family.”
Then Beowulf had them bring in all the treasures he had received
from Hrothgar: a boar’s head standard, helmet and war-shirt and
sword, all of which had belonged to Hrothgar’s own brother—no gift
could have been more precious than all this garb of war, none more
kindly meant. Four high-stepping horses were then led in, burnished
bay they were, and matching as apples. All these and more Beowulf
gave that day to his lord. Surely there was never a more generous
heart than this.
To Hygelac’s queen he presented the marvelous ancient collar he
had been given by Hrothgar, three prancing horses also and fine sad-
dles too. Wearing this jewel, the queen shone in beauty as never be-
fore. For all these great gifts and to honor this great champion, Hy-
gelac laid in Beowulf’s lap the finest sword in the royal treasure.
Richly wrought in gold it was, magnificent in every detail. But that

— 30 —
was not all. The king bestowed on him there and then a huge estate
and a fine hall too, fit for such a hero who had brought through his
brave deeds such honor and such riches to the land of the Geats.
All seemed then peaceful and set fair for Hygelac and the Geats,
but the fate of kings and their people, even of great heroes, is forever
fickle and fraught with danger.

— 31 —
 — Part Three —

Beowulf and the Death-Dragon of the Deep

It was not so many years after this that in the heat of battle, Hy-
gelac, brave king of the Geats, was struck down and killed. He was
much mourned, for he had ruled wisely and well. But the Geats were
fortunate indeed despite their sadness, for now the whole kingdom
passed into the hands of that great hero, Beowulf. For more than fifty
years he ruled the land and ruled it fairly, generous always in spirit, a
good and kindly king. Never had there been a king more loved and
admired than Beowulf. Gray-haired now—even for this hero, age had
taken its toll of years—he had every right to expect a peaceful old
age, but cruel fate was to intervene and deny it to him. We do not
always have what we deserve.
For three hundred years or more, deep in a burial mound high on
the cliffs above the moors, lay a hoard-guarding dragon, sleeping all
this while, undisturbed. So he might have stayed forever, harmless in
his dragon-dreams, a hoard of golden treasure for his bed. No one
would ever have known of him, nor of the treasure. But quite by
chance some nameless slave happened upon this cave. Condemned
to a flogging and on the run from his warrior master, he found the
opening and, seeking any shelter he could find, crept in and came
across this slumbering dragon curled up on his pile of treasure; heaps
of hoard-things there were.
Seized with sudden terror at the sight of this monstrous dragon,
the unfortunate slave wanted only to escape. But one golden goblet
lay close by, so close he simply could not resist it. He snatched it up
and ran for his life. And even as he ran, an idea came into his head.
This goblet would be a perfect gift for my master, he thought. I’ll go
back and give it to him. Maybe it will appease his fury. Little did he
know what fire-fury he would bring upon himself and his whole

— 32 —
people by this thoughtless act. Little did he know or care how this
treasure had come to be there with the death-dragon guarding it—
how in a heathen age long ago, the sole survivor from a tribe of earls
that had been brought to a sudden and violent war-death had carried
this treasure-hoard of talismans into the mound, knowing that he
could no longer guard it and care for it himself. He decided to hide it,
bury it where no one could ever find it. Over the treasure he be-
wailed his grief for his lost friends, for the joys they had shared, cry-
ing out to the earth itself to protect the precious tribe-treasure, last
vestiges of a proud people now slaughtered and silent in death, all
their harp playing, all singing, done forever. So he left the treasure-
filled mound and, maddened with grief, wandered the wind-wild
moors until death came for him too. So all that tribe was gone. But
the treasure remained.
Soon there came that way a dreaded dragon, a night-ravager. A
foul flame-fiend he was, always seeking out hellish hiding holes
where he could rest. One day he happened on this same treasure-
filled mound—fate had brought him there—and made it his own,
possessed it with his power, intending to sleep there on this priceless
pillow till the end of time. Not that it did him any good. Possession
was all his joy. So for three hundred years undisturbed this death-
dragon guarded his underground hoard, until that doomed day
when that wretched slave came upon the place by chance, discovered
the godless creature sleeping there, and carried off that golden gob-
let, a peace offering to his master, or so he thought. A luckless man.
But the dragon through his serpent scales had felt the loss of the
treasure and, hearing the footfall of the intruder, opened one angry
eye and watched him go. After three hundred years he was slow to
wake. This worm of wickedness now slithered out of his hole, follow-
ing where the fleeing slave had gone. Rage-roaring, he circled his
mound looking for the man’s footprints, but found none out there in
the wilderness. Yet he knew his treasure-house had been breached,
knew the golden cup had been stolen from him and was burning

— 33 —
with fire-fury at the offense. He would have his sweet revenge, that
was sure. He longed now for the flames of war, for the fire of battle
again after so many years asleep. He could hardly wait.
That night this death-dealing dragon came flying over the moors.
Armed with fire he came, spewing out his flames wherever he went.
He did not mind whose dwelling it was he left burning brightly be-
hind him. In his eyes, all were guilty of the crime. If he had his way,
he would not have left a single man alive. Over all the Geatish land
the blazing fires rose skyward. A scourge of fire-spitting destruction
he wrought in that one night, pouring out his venomous fire, burning
everywhere and everyone with his flame-throwing, poisonous
breath. Before morning light came to the sky, with the country and its
people left so cruelly ravaged, the serpent flew back to his hidden
hoard deep inside his secret mound. Here he believed he would be
quite safe. But he was mistaken, as you shall hear.
Beowulf had heard by now of the horror visited on his country-
men that night by this death-dragon. His own mead-hall, most mag-
nificent of all buildings in the land, the very heart of his kingdom,
had been consumed by the serpent’s fire. Sorrow overcame him when
he saw the ashes smoldering. Grief-gripped and guilt-ridden, that
good king imagined that he must have brought this on himself, that
he had somehow angered his eternal God. When he saw how that
devil’s dragon had visited fire and fury on all the land by the sea,
where his people had lived out their lives in peace, secure, they
thought, in the safety of their homes, anger swelled inside him and
overcame his grief and his guilt. Now the old king roused himself to
action and swore to punish this evil death-messenger.
Old he may have been, but Beowulf was formidable still in
strength and will. At once he gave orders that a huge shield should
be made, all in iron—he knew wood would be little use against the
searing heat of the serpent’s fire. Only with such a shield would he be
able to come close enough to the hoard-squatting dragon to put an
end to this murderer’s miserable life. But Beowulf, this mighty warri-

— 34 —
or of old, would not go up against this death-dragon with his army of
warriors. He was a hero who had never known fear. He scorned the
dragon’s strength and his fighting prowess too. Beowulf had sur-
vived battles in plenty and had emerged victorious in many other
clashes since that time when he had destroyed the monster Grendel
and his sea-hag mother all those years before in the land of Hrothgar.
He was not afraid again to do battle in defense of his people, this no-
ble hero. So he took only eleven warrior-companions with him to
seek out this fiery ravager of the night. They were all he would need,
he thought.
But one more came with them too: the slave who had stumbled
by chance into the hidden mound and woken the hoard-watching
dragon from his centuries of sleep. He had been discovered, this
guilty slave, clutching the precious golden goblet. So the cause of the
serpent’s woeful attack had been discovered, and the slave was
brought along, this cursed coward, to show them the way into the
mound, for he alone knew the inside of the dragon’s earth-hall, the
cavernous lair heaped high with treasure, where the dreaded dragon
lay. Beowulf knew how formidable this underground guardian was,
how fierce and fiery a foe he would be. And he was not wrong.
To the headland on the cliffs they came and saw at last the secret
mound and the narrow way in. Here Beowulf spoke to his trusted
hearth-companions. He meant with his words to lift their hearts, to
exhort and encourage them, to banish their fear. There was no fear in
the great hero, but the truth was that his own spirit was gloomy and
heavy with premonition, as if he already knew that this was the place
and the time of his last fight, that this dragon would be the end of
him, his body and soul torn apart at last in the struggle that lay
ahead. Strongly he spoke, though, banishing all those dark thoughts
from his mind.
“Cherished comrades-in-arms, I have survived many struggles in
my life and I do not forget any of them, nor the brave war-
companions who died at my side. I have always had good fortune in

— 35 —
these battles, wielding my bright, hard-edged sword again and again
in service first of Hygelac, my king in my early days, and as king my-
self now these long years since. Every battle I ventured I won, by
God’s good grace, and I shall win again today, old as I am. I am the
stern guardian of my people and must destroy this death-dragon be-
fore he destroys us. I would go up against him bareheaded and bare-
handed as I grappled once with that monster Grendel. But I must
somehow defend myself against the fire of this flame-spitter. So I will
carry this iron shield to fend off the flames and will wear my mail-
shirt and helmet to protect my flesh from his fire-venom. I shall be
strong in spirit, give all in this fight. I shall not run from this heathen
hoard-guardian, however hot and fierce his flames. Wait here for me.
This is my fight. It is for me, your king, to match myself against this
champion of evil. I will dare all bravely. Should I win, God willing,
then the hoard-dragon will die his death and harm us no more, and
we shall win all the gold he guards. Should I fail, then your king will
not see this nightfall, nor any other tomorrow, nor share the cup of
mead with you ever again. If this is my end, then so be it.”
Strongly he spoke out, this champion of the Geats. Despite all his
doubts he was still confident in his prowess. Brave beside his shield
he stood, in helmet and war-shirt ready now to meet the death-
dragon face to face. He would not shrink from the fight, this survivor
of countless conflicts and battle-clashes. Then out of the mound came
a sudden blast of flame. Waves of savage fire surged out of that dead-
ly tunnel. So the dragon began the battle, breathing out his perilous
fire. Without being burned alive, there seemed no way in, no way
past those terrible flames for Beowulf.
In his anger now the hero roared his defiance. Like a battle-horn
it sounded, echoing through the vaulted cavern. Deep inside, the hat-
ed dragon recognized the champion’s voice-challenge. Filled with
fury, he stirred himself to violent action. Uncoiled now, the serpent
roared out his thunderous response, a hissing gout of foul flame and
billowing breath-smoke. The ground shook. The rocks and the trees

— 36 —
trembled as the death-dragon emerged, enraged, from the mound,
seeking out his foe. There stood Beowulf before him, bravest of war-
rior kings, his shield held before him, his trusted sword drawn. Each
saw then the terrible power of the other, felt the same portent of im-
pending doom. But neither would shirk the death-encounter. Beo-
wulf stood his ground as the all-enveloping flames rushed forward
toward him, curling over and around him, enveloping him entirely in
smoke and fire. Bravely he stood fast behind his great shield, know-
ing already that, huge though it was, it was too small to protect him.
Undaunted, the hero swung up his huge ancestral sword, ancient
sword of all the Geatish kings, and struck the dragon a savage, scyth-
ing blow, cut through his foul flesh to the bare bone beneath; a
deathblow he meant it to be, hoped it would be. But this time his
good old sword failed to bite deeply enough. Wounded now, the
dragon came on in his agony, spat his hellish fire over the greatheart-
ed king, forced him back with his spewing flames. Beowulf felt the
skin-searing pain and knew then that this time there would be no
easy victory, that he had met his match at last.
Then as the death-dragon raged and roared, rearing up to attack
Beowulf again, those chosen few, those trusted comrades-in-arms,
who should have rushed to his side in his moment of need, turned
away and ran for the safety of the woods, saving their shameful
skins, leaving their king to face that flame-belching monster all alone.
Only Wiglaf, the youngest there, stood by his lord. He felt the bonds
of kinship more keenly than the others. He knew his duty, knew
where his place was. He would not desert the king who had be-
stowed on him and his family so much kindness. Land he held and a
wealthy house and gold too, all given to him and his forebears by this
most generous of all kings. He would stay and fight at Beowulf’s
side. Angrily he urged the others to do the same, shouting after them,
“How can you leave him now, when he needs us most, our dear lord
Beowulf? Did he not choose us himself to accompany him on this
perilous adventure? Did we not all come here expecting a fight? Now

— 37 —
when we should be at his side, you run away like rabbits! As for me, I
would far rather die here alongside him, feel with him the pain of
death if I must, end my life fighting in the struggle, sword in hand,
rather than desert him and return home shamed forever.”
But his words fell on deaf ears. Fear-filled, the cowards dropped
their swords and ran for their lives, all courage withered suddenly
and gone, and all honor with it.
Wiglaf did not hesitate now. Disdaining all fear—and this was his
first battle—the young lion threw up his wooden shield and strode
through the battle-smoke to his lord’s side. “Beloved and best Beo-
wulf, I am here to help you. I shall defend you to the death, my king,
as I have sworn to do.” Just as he spoke, the death-dragon attacked
for a second time, seeking out both hated foe-men with his blast of
flame. In that billow of fire the youngster’s shield was at once
burned, reduced to cinders, and his mail-shirt was melted away in
the heat as if it had simply never been there. So the young kinsman
leaped in behind the old king’s shield. New strength surged into Be-
owulf’s heart as he saw now that he was not alone in his fight. He
sprang up once again from behind his shield and struck at the fire-
snorting snake with all his might. But his iron blade snapped. That
ancient sword of sternest steel, which had never before failed him in
battle, failed him now and left him at the mercy of the pitiless mon-
ster who came down upon him for the third time.
Now was the demon-dragon’s chance, and he took it. Seething
with war-hatred he opened his bitter jaws and seized the champion
by the neck. The serpent’s fangs bit deep into the flesh, and Beowulf’s
lifeblood poured from him. Wiglaf, that young hero, was as good as
his word. His courage did not fail him now. He summoned all his
strength and sprang forward into the dragon’s fire to defend his lord.
His hands and head were burned as he came through it, but he was
not to be put off, this brave warrior. He would do his duty. Wiglaf
did not aim for the scaly head of the beast but went instead for the
soft throat, stabbing deep into it with his sword, a thrust so powerful

— 38 —
that the dragon was forced to loosen his grip on Beowulf, so stunning
that the fiery flow was suddenly stemmed and stanched forever.
Coming again to his senses, the great king seized his moment,
whipped out his battle-sharp dagger, and drove it to the hilt into the
dragon’s body. So together the two heroes downed the dragon. They
did not stop stabbing him till an end was made of him, till his last
gasp of life, the last death-breath, was over and the monster was still.
But for Beowulf, this was to be his last victory of so many, and he
knew it already. The poison in his wounds was beginning to burn
and swell inside him. He sat down heavily on a ledge of rock, know-
ing that the shadow of his own death was upon him, feeling the fatal
pain of it boiling in his chest. Wiglaf, ever attentive to his lord and
friend, ever loyal, bathed his bloodied king, unfastened his helmet,
did all he could to stanch the bleeding, to relieve his pain. But death
he could not stanch. No one can. The fearless leader knew well now
that this was the end of his time, of all his earthly happiness.
He had only one wish to fulfill before his life left him. He called
Wiglaf closer, for his speech was thin now, his breathing short. “Go
now, dear friend,” he said. “Go into the mound and find this dead
serpent’s treasure-hoard. I want to see it with my own eyes before I
die, those ancient jewels, your golden inheritance. Just once I want to
see it.”
Wiglaf did not hesitate to obey his lord. Bloodied and burned as
he was, he ran past the dead hoard-guardian and into the barrow,
deep into that house of treasures, into the winged serpent’s den of
darkness. Many and magnificent were the marvels he found there:
old tarnished relics of a vanished ancient race of warriors, piles of
drinking cups and heaps of helmets and twisted torques, all of the
most precious gold. No wonder this death-dragon had fought so
hard to keep it. And high above the hoard there hung the battle
standard of the tribe, woven entirely in glowing gold that shone even
in the gloom of the place, brightly enough even to light up the treas-
ure below. Swiftly, for he knew there was little time to waste, Wiglaf

— 39 —
gathered all he could carry out, golden cups and flagons, and that
ancient battle standard too.
Even burdened by his load of treasures, Wiglaf ran all the way
back out of the tunnel. With every eager step he worried that his lord
might already have died out there while he was gone. And when the
brave thane at last saw his leader, he did seem almost dead, barely
breathing still, his eyes closed. Wiglaf sprinkled his face with cooling
water, begging him to wake up and live.
Deep in his death-sleep the battle-king heard Wiglaf’s voice call-
ing him back, opened his eyes, and saw the gold that honest Wiglaf
had brought to show him. He thanked the youngster for all he had
done for him—he was thoughtful even in death, this hero—and then,
breathless, spoke these last few words: “I have defended my king-
dom these fifty years as best I could, served my people as wisely as I
could. For that I thank my God, the King of all Glory. And to him al-
so I give thanks for these treasures I see before my dying eyes, for the
opportunity to acquire them for my people on my death-day, to sus-
tain them in all their needs in the future when I am gone. Wiglaf, my
beloved friend, I fear I can stay no longer. Tell them—and this is the
last command of their king—to build me a tomb high on the cliff
overlooking Hronesness. Let it stand always as a towering reminder
of me to my people, so that masted ships dipping through the sea-
mists may see it and remember it always. Let the place be known for-
ever as Beowulf’s barrow.”
So saying, he unclasped the golden collar from around his neck
and gave it to Wiglaf. His helmet, armor, and arm-rings too he hand-
ed to the young spearman, reward for his courage and loyalty. “Use
these well, good friend,” he said. These were the old man’s last
words, spoken with his last breath. At that moment his soul left his
body, soaring heavenward on its way to everlasting glory.
How Wiglaf grieved then at the passing of his king, at the suffer-
ing of his life’s end. It was no consolation to him that nearby lay the
corpse of the terrible death-dragon, no joy to him that the destroyer

— 40 —
had been destroyed, that he would no longer fly the night air, no
longer terrorize and torment the people. It was no matter either that
the beautiful treasure-hoard of unimaginable wealth was theirs.
Not long afterward those ten traitorous battle-shirkers, those
cringing cowards who had deserted their leader so shamefully, de-
cided it was safe enough to emerge from the woods. They came now
to where the old king lay, and found Wiglaf, weary with battle,
weeping at his lord’s shoulder, still trying to wake him with water,
still not wanting to believe that the hero would not wake from his
death-sleep, would never speak again. But as stillness gripped the old
man’s body, he saw and understood there was no life left, nor any
hope of life either.
He turned his gaze then and his anger on those craven compan-
ions-in-arms gathered around. “Look well upon this lord of men,
who made you who you are, gave you all you have and hold. But all
his kindnesses to you were wasted, were they not? For when he most
needed you, you turned and ran away. He had to face the fire-fury of
this death-dragon alone and unaided. I could do little for him on my
own, though I tried my best. All the world shall now hear how you
deserted your lord and kinsman, turned tail and fled with never a
thought for your king in his hour of greatest need. You thought only
of your own worthless skins. For this shameful act you will pay a
heavy price, I promise you. You will be stripped of all riches and
honors, all possessions, even your homes. You and yours will be
condemned to wander the world as beasts, homeless and friendless
forever.”
News of the great king’s death spread fast, how he had tried all
he could to kill the death-dragon, and had indeed achieved it at last,
but at a terrible cost. Both lay dead now on their slaughter-bed by the
mound, Wiglaf, the young spearman, the only one who had stood by
him in the fight, still at his master’s side. On hearing these hateful
tidings, the earls in the royal mead-hall, saddened and silent, sat by
their shields, fearful now for the safety of their kingdom, for the lord

— 41 —
of the Geats, so long their strong protector, so long their guardian
against every enemy, was gone from them forever. Still unwilling
and unable to believe this dread news, the war-band went heavy-
hearted and with welling tears to where Beowulf lay. And so they
saw the body for themselves and knew then that the final day had
come for their champion, that the warrior-king of the Geats was in-
deed dead.
They saw too that loathsome dragon stretched out nearby,
scorched by his own flames, twisted and coiled in his death-agony.
More than fifty feet long he was, this vile creature, once master of
darkness, once their terrible tormentor, now laid low and destroyed
by brave Beowulf. And they found there too all the treasure-hoard
the death-dragon had been guarding. At Wiglaf’s command, they
fetched all of it out from inside the mound, bowls and flagons and
platters, all in gold, wonderfully worked weapons too, arm-rings and
jewels hidden for a thousand years from human eye until this mo-
ment. Neither they, as they gazed in awe at this precious pile, nor
indeed Beowulf himself could ever have known that the sole survivor
of the earls who so long ago had placed the treasure for safekeeping
there had laid a curse on it to last till the end of time, that whoever
found it and plundered it would bring down upon himself and his
people nothing but terror and tragedy. And so it had happened.
Wiglaf lifted his head and spoke to these grief-stricken earls: “Be-
fore he died, our dear king asked me to present to you his last orders.
We are to raise on the place of the funeral pyre, high on the hill at
Hronesness, a barrow so that his name should never be forgotten. It
shall be known always as Beowulf’s barrow. And I say it must be the
most magnificent, the most imposing barrow ever built, a place fit-
ting for this most honored and honorable of all warrior-kings that
ever lived. But first let us dispose of the remains of this fiend of hell,
this death-dragon who has brought us so much suffering. The very
sight of him offends my eye and sickens my heart.” So they pushed
the death-dragon over the edge of the cliff and watched as his body

— 42 —
fell on the rocks below and broke there. The sea took him and cov-
ered him.
Then the earls made a bier and carried their beloved king to the
hill at Hronesness. Firewood was brought from far and wide to build
the funeral pyre. All around it they hung shining war-coats, battle-
shields, and helmets, as befitting the great hero they had lost. On the
very top they laid him out, just as he had ordered. Wiglaf it was who
set the torch to the pyre, kindled the biggest funeral pyre ever seen.
Wind-fanned, the flames roared up through the pyre and consumed
their cherished lord. As the cloud of black smoke drifted high over
the ocean, there could be heard the wailing and weeping of the wom-
en, the warriors, and all his people, a song of sorrow that rose with
the billowing smoke. Heaven swallowed both.
Then just as Beowulf had commanded, the Geats built for their
dead leader a beacon on that headland, so high and huge that all sea-
farers could see it for miles around. Deep in his tomb they laid the
ashes that remained from the fire, and placed there too all the jewels
and torques, all that magnificent treasure-hoard they had recovered
from the dragon’s mound. They left it there in the earth’s keeping.
And there it is to this day, no more use to men than ever it was be-
fore. Then the warriors rode around and around this walled barrow,
last resting place of their hero king, and mourned him, told out loud
their grief in lavish words praising his name and his prowess, honor-
ing him as their lord and friend. Of all the kings that ever lived, they
said, this was the gentlest and kindest to his people, the most gra-
cious and famous the world had known. His life might be over, they
said, but his name and his deeds would live on as long as his tale was
told.
Which is why, all these years later, I have told this tale.

— 43 —