that owned their homesteads, hither to bring
firewood from far—o’er the folk they ruled—
for the famed-one’s funeral. “Fire shall devour
3115and wan flames feed on the fearless warrior
who oft stood stout in the iron-shower,
when, sped from the string, a storm of arrows
shot o’er the shield- wall: the shaft held firm,
featly feathered, followed the barb.”[1]
3120And now the sage young son of Weohstan
seven chose of the chieftain’s thanes,
the best he found that band within,
and went with these warriors, one of eight,
under hostile roof. In hand one bore
3125a lighted torch and led the way.
No lots they cast for keeping the hoard
when once the warriors saw it in hall,
altogether without a guardian,
lying there lost. And little they mourned
3130when they had hastily haled it out,
dear-bought treasure! The dragon they cast,
the worm, o’er the wall for the wave to take,
and surges swallowed that shepherd of gems.
Then the woven gold on a wain was laden—
3135countless quite!—and the king was borne,
hoary hero, to Hronës-Ness.
XLIII
Then[2] fashioned for him the folk of Geats
firm on the earth a funeral-pile,
