Mythology; Mythology, Greek -- Juvenile literature
That night the warriors from the land of the Goths were feasted in the
great banqueting-hall where, for twelve unhappy years, voices had
never rung out so bravely and so merrily. The queen herself poured out
the mead with which the king and the men from Gothland pledged each
other, and with her own hand she passed the goblet to each one. When,
last of it all, it came to the guest of honour, Beowulf took the cup
of mead from the fair queen and solemnly pledged himself to save the
land from the evil thing that devoured it like a pestilence, or to die
in his endeavour.
"Needs must I now perform knightly deeds in this hall,
Or here must meet my doom in darksome night."
When darkness fell the feast came to an end, and all left the hall
save Beowulf and his fourteen followers. In their armour, with swords
girt on their sides, the fourteen heroes lay down to rest, but Beowulf
laid aside all his arms and gave his sword to a thane to bear away.
For, said he,
"I have heard
That that foul miscreant's dark and stubborn flesh
Recks not the force of arms ...
Hand to hand ... Beowulf will grapple with the mighty foe."
From his fastnesses in the fens, the Grendel had heard the shouts of
revelry, and as the Goths closed their eyes to sleep, knowing they
might open them again only to grapple with hideous death, yet unafraid
because of their sure belief that "What is to be goes ever as it
must," the monster roused himself. Through the dank, chill, clinging
mists he came, and his breath made the poisonous miasma of the marshes
more deadly as he padded over the shivering reeds and trembling
rushes, across the bleak moorland and the high cliffs where the fresh
tang of the grey sea was defiled by the hideous stench of a foul beast
of prey. There was fresh food for him to-night, he knew, some blood
more potent than any that for twelve years had come his bestial way.
And he hastened on with greedy eagerness, nightmare incarnate. He
found the great door of the banqueting-hall bolted and barred, but one
angry wrench set at naught the little precautionary measures of mere
men.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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