She came then to Heorot, where the Ring-Danes slept throughout the hall. Misfortune befell the nobles when Grendel’s mother burst in upon them. The terror was less only by so much as the strength of women, the war-terror of a wife, is less than an armed man’s, when the bound sword, hammer-forged and stained with blood, the keen blade with its edge, cuts the boar on the helmet of the opposed warrior. Then, hard-edged swords were drawn from the benches, many a broad shield lifted fast in hand; they did not think of helm or broad corslet when the terror seized them. She was in haste, wanting to get out from there to save her life when discovered. Quickly, she seized one of the nobles tight, then went to the fen. That man was to Hrothgar the most beloved of heroes in the rank of retainer between the two seas, a mighty shield-warrior, whom she killed on his resting place, a war-renowned fighter. Beowulf was not there; another lodging had been assigned earlier, after the gift-giving, to the mighty Geat. An outcry arose in Heorot. She had taken the bloody hand in her fierce grip. Grief was renewed again in the dwellings. That was no good bargain, which they on both sides had to pay for with lives of friends.

Then the old king, the hoary warrior, was sorrowful in heart when he learned his chief thane no longer lived, his dearest friend dead. Beowulf was quickly brought to the bower, the victorious warrior. At dawn, he went with his earls, the noble champion, himself with his comrades, where the wise king waited to see if the All-Father would ever bring about a change after woe-spells. The warrior famed in battle walked along the floor with his band of men - the hall-timbers resounded - so that he greeted the wise lord of the Ingwines, asked if he had had a restful night, as he had wished.

Hrothgar spoke, protector of the Scyldings: “Do not ask after happiness! Grief is renewed for the Danish people. Æschere is dead, Yrmenlaf’s elder brother, my confidant and counselor, my right-hand man when we defended our heads in battle, when troops clashed and helmets crashed. As a prince should be, Æschere was excellent, an honorable warrior! The wandering death-spirit became his hand-slayer in Heorot; I do not know where the terrible one has turned, exulting in her prey, glad for her fill of death. She has avenged the feud in which you killed Grendel yesterday evening in violent fashion with fierce grips, because he too long diminished and destroyed my people. He fell in battle, forfeited his life. Now another mighty and evil ravager has come, wanting to avenge her son, and has further established this feud, as may seem woeful to many a thane who mourns in his heart over the treasure-giver. Now the hand lies still which did well by you in every wish.

I have heard land-dwellers, my people, hall-counselors, say that they saw two such huge wayfarers haunting the borders, otherworldly ones. One of them, as far as they could discern most clearly, was in the likeness of a woman; the other misshapen one trod the paths of exile in the form of a man, except that he was greater than any other. In the old days, the country-folk called him Grendel. They knew of no father, whether any had been born earlier of these dark spirits. They inhabit secret lands, wolf-haunted slopes, windy headlands, the treacherous fen-path where the mountain stream goes down under the darkness of the hills, the flood under the earth. It is not far from here, reckoned in miles, that the mere stands. Over it hang frosted trees, a grove with fixed roots overshadows the water. There each night one may see a dire portent, fire on the flood. No one among the sons of men is wise enough to know the bottom. Though the heath-roamer, the strong-horned stag, seeks out the forest, put to flight from afar, he will sooner give up his life, his last breath on the bank, before he will hide his head in it. That is not a pleasant place; from there the surging waves rise up, dark to the skies, when the wind stirs up foul weather, until the air grows gloomy, the heavens weep. Now counsel is yours alone! You do not yet know that dangerous place where you may find this sinful creature. Seek it if you dare! I will reward you for that warfare with old treasures, twisted gold, as I did before, if you come back alive.”

Beowulf spoke, son of Ecgtheow: “Do not sorrow, wise one! It is better for each to avenge his friend than to mourn too much. Each of us must await the end of this world’s life; let him who may win fame before death - that is best for the unliving warrior after he has gone. Rise up, guardian of the kingdom, let us quickly go to survey the tracks of Grendel’s kinsman. I promise you this: he shall not escape into protection, neither in the embrace of the earth nor in the mountain-woods nor on the bottom of the sea, let him go where he will. On this day, have patience in every woe of yours as I expect of you!”

The old man leapt up, thanked the gods, for what the man had spoken. Then a horse was bridled, a steed with curled mane, for Hrothgar. The wise king went forth stately, a troop of shield-warriors marched forth in order. The traces were widely seen along the forest-paths, her course over the ground. She had gone across the dark moors, carried the lifeless body of the most beloved thane of him who ruled among the men of the heath.

Then the prince of the nobles went over steep stony slopes, narrow paths along straight ravines, an unknown way, steep headlands, many homes of water-monsters. He went forward with a few wise men to scout out the place until all at once he found mountain-trees hanging over gray stone, a joyless wood; the water stood beneath, bloody and troubled. To all the Danes, the friends of the Scyldings, it was bitter in spirit, a grief to many thanes, a misery to each earl, when on that lake-cliff they came upon Æschere’s head.

The water surged with blood, the people beheld it, with hot gore. At times the horn sang its eager war-cry. The troop all sat down. They saw many strange sea-serpents in the water, also water-monsters lying out on the headland-slopes, serpents and wild beasts. In their fury, they rushed away, bitter and swollen with rage, when they perceived the blast of the battle-horn. The lord of the Geats killed one of them with his bow and arrows, cut off its life-strength in the flood, and it was slower in its swimming on the waves. Death carried it off. They surrounded it quickly on the waves with boar-spears savagely barbed, hemmed it in with trouble, and dragged the strange wave-roamer onto the headland. Men marveled at the grisly guest.

Beowulf put on his armor, warrior’s gear. He had no fear for his life. His hand-woven war-shirt, broad and well-adorned, was to test the depths, that which could protect his body so that battle-grip could not harm his heart, the spiteful grasp of the angry one could not scathe his life. And the white helmet, surrounded with lordly chains, guarded his head, which was to plunge into the depths of the mere, seek the surging waters, adorned with treasure, encircled with noble chains, as a weapons-smith had wrought it in ancient days, fashioned it wondrously, set it with boar-shapes so that afterwards neither brand nor battle-sword could bite into it. That was not the least of mighty aids which Hrothgar’s orator lent him in his need. The name of that hilted sword was Hrunting; it was the most outstanding of old treasures. Its edge was iron, stained with poison-twigs, hardened with battle-blood. Never had it failed any man in the fray who had clasped it in hand, who had dared to go on terrible journeys, to the field of battle. That was not the first time that it had to perform a deed of valor. Indeed, the son of Ecglaf did not remember, strong in his might, what he had said earlier, drunk with wine, when he lent that weapon to a better sword-warrior. He himself did not dare risk his life under the war of the waves, perform a brave deed; there he lost his glory, his repute for valor. It was not so with the other, when he had armed himself for battle.

Beowulf spoke, son of Ecgtheow: “Consider now, famous son of Healfdene, wise king, now I am ready to go, gold-friend of men, what we two spoke of earlier: if I must lose my life for your need, you would always be in a father’s place to me when I am gone. Be guardian of my young thanes, my close comrades, if battle takes me. Also, dear Hrothgar, send the gifts which you gave me to Hygelac. May the lord of the Geats see by that gold, Hrethel’s son may perceive when he looks on that treasure, that I found a ring-giver of virtue, rejoiced in him while I could. And let Unferth have the old heirloom, the wondrous wave-patterned sword; I will win fame with Hrunting, or death shall take me.”

After those words, the prince of the Weder-Geats hastened boldly, would await no answer, the surging water engulfed the warrior. It was the space of a day before he could see the bottom of the lake. Soon she discovered, she who had held the expanse of the floods, greedy and fierce for a hundred half-years, that some man was exploring the monsters’ realm from above. She reached then towards him, grasped the warrior with terrible claws; nevertheless, she did not injure his sound body - the ring-mail protected him without, so that she could not pierce the armor, the linked coat of mail, with her hateful fingers. Then the mere-wife bore the prince of rings to her dwelling when she came to the bottom, so that he could not, though he was strong in spirit, wield his weapons, for many monsters came at him, many a sea-beast with terrible tusks broke his battle-shirt, the evil ones pursued him.

The noble one then realized that he was in some sort of hostile hall, where no water harmed him at all, nor could the sudden grip of the flood touch him because of the roofed hall. He saw a firelight, a gleaming blaze shining brightly. Then the good one caught sight of the mere-woman, that mighty mere-wife. He gave a mighty rush with his battle-sword, his hand did not hold back the blow, so that the ringed blade sang out a greedy war-cry on her head. The guest discovered then that the gleaming sword would not bite or harm her life, but the edge failed the prince in his need. It had endured many hand-to-hand combats before, often sheared through the helmet, the war-dress of the doomed; that was the first time for the precious treasure that its power failed. Yet the kinsman of Hygelac was mindful of glorious deeds, he stood firm in his courage, not slow in valor. The angry warrior threw away the sword, bound round with ornaments, so that it lay upon the earth, strong and steel-edged. He trusted in his strength, the mighty grip of his hand. So must a man do when he thinks to gain long-lasting praise in battle - he will not worry about his life!

Then the lord of the War-Geats, not at all afraid of the fight, seized Grendel’s mother by the shoulder, threw down the deadly foe in his rage, for she was loathed by him. She quickly repaid him a hand-reward with fierce grasps, and grappled with him. The strongest of warriors stumbled in his weariness, the fighter on his feet. Then she threw herself upon him and drew her short-sword, broad and bright-edged. She would avenge her son, her only offspring. The woven breast-armor lay on his shoulder; it protected his life, withstood the entrance of point and edge. Then the son of Ecgtheow, champion of the Geats, would have journeyed to the bottom of the vast mere, if his battle-corslet had not helped him, his hard war-net, brought about war-victory; when Beowulf stood up again.

Then he saw among the armor a victory-blessed blade, an old sword made by the giants, strong of its edges, the glory of warriors. It was the choicest of weapons, except that it was larger than any other man could carry to war-sport, good and adorned, the work of giants. He seized the gold-charmed hilt, the warrior of the Scyldings, fierce and battle-grim, drew the patterned blade, despairing of life, angrily struck so that it caught her hard on the neck, broke the bone-rings; the sword went straight through her fated body; she sank on the floor. The sword was bloody, the man rejoiced in his deed. The glow shone, light stood within, even as the candle of the sky shines brightly from heaven.

He looked about the dwelling, then turned by the wall. The thane of Hygelac, angry and resolute, lifted the hard weapon by the hilt. The edge was not useless to the warrior, but he quickly wished to repay Grendel many war-rushes which he had carried out, many more than a single time, when he slew Hrothgar’s hearth-companions in their slumber, devoured fifteen men of the Danish folk in their sleep and carried off as many others, a horrible prey. He had paid him his reward for that, the fierce champion, insomuch that he now saw Grendel lying lifeless in his resting place, worn out with battle, so as the fight at Heorot had scathed him before. The corpse sprang far when it suffered a blow after death, a hard sword-stroke, and he cut off its head.

Soon the wise men saw, those who waited with Hrothgar, looked out on the water, that the surging waves were all mingled, the water stained with blood. The old grey-haired ones spoke together about the good man, that they did not expect the prince to come back in victory to seek their mighty leader, since to many it seemed that the sea-wolf had destroyed him. Then the ninth hour of the day came. The bold Scyldings left the headland; the gold-friend of men went homeward from there. The foreigners sat, sick at heart, and stared at the mere. They wished and did not expect that they would see their lord himself.

Then that sword, the blade, began to dissolve in war-icicles from the blood of battle; it was a great wonder that it all melted most like ice when the Father loosens the frost’s bond, unwinds the flood-ropes. The lord of the Geats took no other plunder from those dwellings, though he saw many there, except for the head and the hilt together, decorated with treasure; the sword had already melted, the patterned blade burned up. The blood was so hot, the alien spirit so poisonous, who perished there.

Soon he was swimming, he who had survived the onslaught of enemies before; he dove up through the water. The surging waters were entirely cleansed when the alien spirit gave up his life-days and this loaned world. The safeguard of seamen came to land, bravely swimming. He rejoiced in his sea-booty, the mighty burden which he had with him. Then the stout band of thanes advanced towards him, thanking the gods. They rejoiced in their chief, that they could see him safe and sound. Then helm and mail-coat were quickly loosed from the strong man. The lake grew calm, water under the clouds, stained with battle-blood.

They set forth from there along the foot-paths, glad in heart; they measured the earth-ways, the well-known roads. The courageous men bore the head from the sea-cliff, toilsome for each of the brave men - four of them had to struggle to bear Grendel’s head on a battle-pole to the gold-hall, until suddenly, bold and battle-brave, fourteen Geats in all came to the hall, marching across the plain. The lord of men trod the meadows among them, proud in the midst of his troop. Then the prince of the thanes, the man bold in deeds, distinguished by glory, the warrior fierce in battle, went in to greet Hrothgar. Then Grendel’s head was borne by the hair into the hall where men drank - a terrible sight before the earls and the lady too. The men looked on that wondrous spectacle.