They sank into sleep. One of those sorely paid
for his rest that night, as had occurred often before,
when Grendel had held sway in that hall of gold,
ruled without right, till he came to his end,
dealt death for his sins. Yet it became known,
widely spoken among men, that still an avenger
lived on after that monster, now a long time
since he met his death. The mother of Grendel,
a female monster, was minded to cause misery.
She was doomed to dwell in some fearsome waters,
streams cold as death, since Cain had committed
the brutal murder of his only brother,
both with the same father. He was fated to wander,
marked for the murder, fleeing the joys of men,
to dwell in the wasteland. From him descended
doomed spirits of old—dread Grendel was one,
that much-hated outlaw, who discovered in Heorot
a warrior on watch, all ready for battle.
There the monster had seized ahold of the hero,
but Beowulf bore in mind his marvelous strength,
a wondrous gift which God had given him,
so he counted on aid from the Almighty,
for help and support. Thus he defeated the demon,
laid low hell’s creature, and the wretched one departed,
deprived of joy, to seek out his death-place,
a fallen foe of mankind. And now came his mother,
hungering for men’s death, who desired to go
on a sorrowful journey to avenge her slain son.
She came then to Heorot, where around the hall
the Ring-Danes were sleeping. A reversal of fortune
fell upon those men when the mother of Grendel
penetrated within. The terror of this woman,
her fury in fighting, only seemed any less
when her strength was compared to a weaponed man,
armed with shining sword forged by the smith’s hammer,
adorned with blood, slicing through the boar
on an enemy’s helmet with its battle-proved edges.
Then all over the hall men took up their sharp swords,
their blades from the benches, and many a broad shield
was heaved up by strong hands. They did not even think
of their stout mail-coats when seized by this terror.
She was in haste, wished to escape that hall,
to save her life, now that she had been seen.
Quickly she laid hold of one of those heroes,
held him fast in her grip, then rushed off to the fen.
That doomed man was the dearest to Hrothgar
of his noble retainers anywhere between the seas,
a strong shield-bearer, whom she slew where he slept,
a widely-famed warrior. Nor was Beowulf there,
but he was earlier assigned another resting-place,
after the giving of treasures to the glorious Geat.
Shouts cried out in Heorot: she had taken the famed hand,
covered with gore, and now grief surged once more,
brought again to their homes. It was not a good bargain
that those on both sides were driven to deal
with the lives of loved ones. Then the wise Danish king,
the hoary old warrior, grew heavy in heart
when he learned his chief thane
r was no longer living,
and came to realize his dear friend was dead.
Quickly Beowulf was fetched, a man blessed with victory,
to the king’s bed-chamber. At the break of day,
he went with his warriors, a noble champion
among his companions, to where the king waited,
longing to know whether the Almighty would ever
bring about change after this long spell of suffering.
The war-worthy man walked across the floor,
with his band of heroes—the hall-wood resounded—
so that he could address the king of the Danes
with formal words, asking if he had enjoyed
an agreeable night after the evening’s feasting.