Then had it sorrowfully come to pass for the young warrior that he
saw his most beloved in a miserable plight on the earth at his life's
end. Likewise the terrible dragon, his slayer, lay there bereft of life
and pressed sore by ruin. And the coiled dragon could no longer wield
the hoard of rings, but the iron edges of the sword, well tempered
and battle-gashed; the hammer's leavings [80], had carried him off,
so that the wide-flier, stilled because of his wounds, fell to the
earth near to the hoard-hall. And no more in playful wise at the
midnight hour, did he drift through the air; this dragon, proud in
his gainings of treasure, showed not his face, but was fallen to the
earth because of the handiwork of the battle-warrior.
And as I have heard, it would have profited but few of the mighty
men, even though they were doughty in deeds of all kinds, though they
should rush forth against the flaming breath of the poisonous scather,
even to the very disturbing of the Ring-Hall with their hands, if
they should have found the guardian thereof awake, and dwelling in
the cliff-cave. Then Beowulf's share of lordly treasure was paid for
by his death. And both he and the dragon had come to an end of their
fleeting days.
And not long after that, the laggards in battle, those cowardly
treaty-breakers, ten of them together, came back from the woodlands,
they who erewhile had dreaded the play of javelins when their lord
had sore need of their help. But they were filled with shame, and
carried their shields, and battle-weeds, to where the old prince was
lying. And they looked on Wiglaf; he the foot-warrior sat aweary near
to the shoulders of his lord, and sought to rouse him by sprinkling
water upon him, but he succeeded not at all. Nor could he, though he
wished it ever so much, keep life in the chieftain or avert a whit
the will of the Wielder of all things. Every man's fate was decided
by the act of God, as is still the case. Then was a grim answer easily
given by the young man to these who erewhile had lost their courage.
Wiglaf spake, he the son of Weohstan, the sad-hearted. 'He who will
speak truth may say that the lord and master who gave you gifts, and
warlike trappings, in which ye are now standing, when he very often
gave on the ale-bench to them who sat in the hall, both helmet and
byrny, the Prince to his thanes, as he could find any of you most noble
far or near, that he wholly wrongly bestowed upon you war-trappings
when war befell him. The King of the folk needed not indeed to boast
of his army comrades, yet God, the Wielder of Victory, granted to
him that alone he avenged himself with the edge of the sword when he
had need of strength. And but a little life-protection could I give
him in the battle, yet I sought to help him beyond my strength. The
dragon was by so much the weaker when I struck with my sword that
deadly foe. And less fiercely the fire surged forth from his head. Too
few were the defenders thronged around their lord when his fated hour
came. And now shall the receiving of treasure, and the gift of swords,
and all joy of home and hope cease for ever to men of your kin. And
every man of you of the tribe must wander empty of land-rights,
since noble men will learn far and wide of your flight and inglorious
deed. Death would be better for earls than a life of reproach.'