But me to the ground tugg'd A foe and fiend-scather; fast he had me In hold That grim one in grip: yet to me was it given. That the wretch there, the monster, with point might I reach, With my bill of the battle, and the war-race off bore The mighty mere-beast through the hand that was mine. X. BEOWULF MAKES AN END OF HIS TALE OF THE SWIMMING. WEALHTHEOW, HROTHGAR'S QUEEN, GREETS HIM; AND HROTHGAR DELIVERS TO HIM THE WARDING OF THE HALL. Thus oft and oft over the doers of evil They threatened me hard; thane-service I did them 560 With the dear sword of mine, as forsooth it was meet, That nowise of their fill did they win them the joy The evil fordoers in swallowing me down, Sitting round at the feast nigh the ground of the sea. Yea rather, a morning-tide, mangled by sword-edge Along the waves' leaving up there did they lie Lull'd asleep with the sword, so that never sithence About the deep floods for the farers o'er ocean The way have they letted. Came the light from the eastward, The bright beacon of God, and grew the seas calm, 570 So that the sea-nesses now might I look on, The windy walls. Thuswise Weird oft will be saving The earl that is unfey, when his valour availeth. Whatever, it happ'd me that I with the sword slew Nicors nine. Never heard I of fighting a night-tide 'Neath the vault of the heavens was harder than that, Nor yet on the sea-streams of woefuller wight. Whatever, forth won I with life from the foes' clutch All of wayfaring weary. But me the sea upbore, The flood downlong the tide with the weltering of waters, 580 All onto the Finnland. No whit of thee ever Mid such strife of the battle-gear have I heard say, Such terrors of bills. Nor never yet Breca In the play of the battle, nor both you, nor either, So dearly the deeds have framed forsooth With the bright flashing swords; though of this naught I boast me. But thou of thy brethren the banesman becamest, Yea thine head-kin forsooth, for which in hell shalt thou Dree weird of damnation, though doughty thy wit be; For unto thee say I forsooth, son of Ecglaf, 590 That so many deeds never Grendel had done, That monster the loathly, against thine own lord, The shaming in Hart-hall, if suchwise thy mind were, And thy soul e'en as battle-fierce, such as thou sayest. But he, he hath fram'd it that the feud he may heed not, The fearful edge-onset that is of thy folk, Nor sore need be fearful of the Victory-Scyldings. The need-pledges taketh he, no man he spareth Of the folk of the Danes, driveth war as he lusteth, Slayeth and feasteth unweening of strife 600 With them of the Spear-Danes. But I, I shall show it, The Geats' wightness and might ere the time weareth old, Shall bide him in war-tide. Then let him go who may go High-hearted to mead, sithence when the morn-light