Soon,[1] then, saw the sage companions
who waited with Hrothgar, watching the flood,
that the tossing waters turbid grew,
blood-stained the mere. Old men together,
1595hoary-haired, of the hero spake;
the warrior would not, they weened, again,
proud of conquest, come to seek
their mighty master. To many it seemed
the wolf-of-the-waves had won his life.
1600The ninth hour[2] came. The noble Scyldings
left the headland; homeward went
the gold-friend of men.[3] But the guests sat on,
stared at the surges, sick in heart,
and wished, yet weened not, their winsome lord
1605again to see.
Now that sword began,
from blood of the fight, in battle-droppings,[4]
war-blade, to wane: ’twas a wondrous thing
that all of it melted as ice is wont
when frosty fetters the Father loosens,
1610unwinds the wave-bonds, wielding all
seasons and times: the true God he!
Nor took from that dwelling the duke of the Geats
precious things, though a plenty he saw,
save only the head and that hilt withal
1615blazoned with jewels: the blade had melted,
- ↑ After the killing of the monster and Grendel’s decapitation.
- ↑ Strictly this would be three o’clock in the afternoon; but the close of the day, perhaps the shorter northern day in winter, seems indicated. Gering translates “evening.”
- ↑ Hrothgar.
- ↑ The blade slowly dissolves in blood-stained drops like icicles.
