The dragon guarded a hoard in the high heath, a stone-barrow; a path ran beneath, unknown to men. Inside, a certain man had entered who seized a cup, a gold-plated treasure; he did not give it back, though he had tricked the sleeping guardian with thievish craft. The king found out that his rage was provoked.

It was not by his own desire that the man sought out the dragon’s hoard, bringing about woe and destruction; rather, out of dire necessity, a servant, one of some slaves, sought refuge there with a guilty conscience, fleeing heavy blows. Soon he entered, the frightened spirit of the man. There he saw many old treasures lying in that earthen hall, as some man in days of yore, mindful of a noble heritage, had hidden them there, the immense legacy of a high-born race, precious treasures. Death had seized them all in times past, and the only one still living from that people, a warden hoping to delay, longed that he might for a little while enjoy the long-accumulated wealth.

A barrow stood ready on the plain near the water, new by the headland, closed fast by a secret spell. Into it, the keeper of rings bore a weighty portion of the precious treasures; he spoke a few words: “Now, earth, hold what earls once held and heroes can no more; it was mined from you first by honored men. A death in battle, a fearsome life-bane, has killed off each of my folk who have given up this life, gone to glory’s waiting hall. Not one has escaped the dreaded war-tide. I alone am left to tell their tale, the last of the spear-warriors. So I must mourn my friends and comrades, their leaving this world, to watch alone over these war-won hoards, rich with burnished gold-work, the chests and cups. The polishers who should brighten the shining cups again lie in graves of their own, silenced, denied life’s joys.

Now the hard helmet with its gold plating will be stripped of its hoops; those who should polish and repair it can no longer do so. The coat of mail, the vest of chain-links that went with its wearer through the clash of shields, decays with the death of the warrior. No longer can the ringed mail journey far on the war-leader’s shoulder when the arrow-storm calls the spear-bearing warrior to battle, when the bow’s arrow, loosed from the bowstring, hurtles singing into battle. So the harp’s joyous strains, the delights of the gladdening song will not wake him, nor will the swift-winged hawk fly through the hall, nor will the swift steed impatiently stamp the courtyard. A woeful death has taken off too many noble kins-men.”

Thus the lone survivor mourned his sorrow, joylessly lamenting by day and by night until death’s tide touched at his heart. The old twilight-scather, the naked dragon burning with rage, found the hoard of joy standing open, he who hunts out burial mounds, the smooth-skinned ancient serpent, threatening and fiercely coiling, who flies at night enveloped in fire. In the country-side, people greatly fear him.

He must seek out hoards under the earth and guard heathen gold, wise with many years; he gains no profit thereby. So three hundred winters the ravager of the people had held with greed the vast cave-hall, until a certain man enraged him in heart, bore to his lord a gold-plated cup, begged for a truce as his lord granted. The hoard was robbed, treasure carried away, a plea granted to the wretched man. The lord beheld the ancient work of men for the first time.

When the wyrm awoke, strife was renewed; he sniffed along the rock, hardy-hearted, found the tracks of his foe. By his evil craft, he had taken too near the dragon’s head with thief-steps. The hoard-keeper searched eagerly over the ground, wanted to find the man who had harmed him in his sleep. Hot and fierce-minded, he circled around the barrow all without, but there was no man in that wasteland; however, he was eager for battle, for the deed of war. At times he would go into the barrow, seek out the gems; soon he discovered that some man had found out about his gold, his splendid treasure.

The hoard-guardian waited in vain until evening came; he was swollen with rage, the barrow’s keeper would repay with fire the theft of the precious cup. Then was the day departed to the satisfaction of the wyrm. No longer would he wait on the mountain-wall, but went blazing forth, hastening with fire. The beginning was fearful for the people in the land, just as it would soon end sorrowfully for their treasure-giver.

Then the monster began to spew flames, to burn the bright dwellings; the flare of fire leapt forth, terrifying the men. The loathsome air-flier wanted to leave nothing alive. The warfare of the wyrm was widely seen, the onslaught of the cruel foe far and near, how the war-scather hated and ruined the Geatish people. He hurried back to the hoard, the hidden hall, before daylight. He had surrounded the land-dwellers with flame, with fire and burning. He trusted in his barrow, his warring and his ramparts. That hope deceived him.

Then the terrible news was made known to Beowulf quickly and truly, that his own home, best of buildings, had melted in the waves of fire, the gift-throne of the Geats. That was great misery to the good man, greatest of sorrows in his heart. The wise man thought that he must have bitterly angered the All-Father, against the old law. His breast swelled within with dark thoughts, which was not usual for him.

The fire-dragon had destroyed the people’s stronghold, the fortress by the water, the land by the shore, with burning. Therefore, the war-king, the lord of the Weders, plotted vengeance. The protector of warriors, prince of earls, ordered a marvelous war-shield all of iron to be made for him. He knew full well that forest-wood could not help him, linden-wood against flame. The peerless prince must await the end of his fleeting days, of worldly life, and the serpent with him, though it had long held the hoarded wealth.

The ring-prince scorned to seek out the wide-flier with a troop, with a large army; he did not dread the fight, nor did he think much of the serpent’s war-power, its strength and prowess, because he had formerly dared many battles, crash of combat, since he, the man blessed with victory, had cleansed Hrothgar’s hall and in battle grappled with Grendel’s kin of the loathed race. That was not the least hand-to-hand fight, where Hygelac was slain, when the king of the Geats, the lord-friend of the people, son of Hrethel, died bloodily, struck down by a sword in Frisia. From there Beowulf came by his own strength, swimming the waves. He had on his arm thirty war-coats when he stepped into the sea. The Hetware, who bore shields against him, had no need to exult in the fight - few returned from that war-path to see their homes.

The son of Ecgtheow swam over the expanse of the waters, miserable and alone, back to his people. There Hygd offered him the hoard and kingdom, rings and royal throne; she did not trust that her child could hold his patrimony against foreign hosts, now that Hygelac was dead. Yet no sooner could the wretched people prevail upon the prince in any way to become Heardred’s lord and accept the kingship; instead he sustained him among the people with friendly counsel, graciously with honor, until he grew older and ruled the Weather-Geats. Banished men sought him out over the seas, the sons of Ohthere. They had rebelled against the lord of the Scylfings, the best of sea-kings that ever dispensed treasure in Sweden, a famous prince. That was his life’s limit; he, son of Hygelac, obtained deadly wounds in the play of war; and the son of Ongentheow departed to seek out his home when Heardred lay dead, left Beowulf to occupy the royal throne and rule the Geats. That was a good king.

In later days he thought of requital for the prince’s fall; he befriended Eadgils the wretched. He supported Ohthere’s son over the wide sea with warriors and weapons. Thereafter Eadgils avenged that cold journey, the sorrow of a king, with his own life-blood.

Thus the son of Ecgtheow had survived each malicious fight, each bold encounter, up to that one day when he must battle with the serpent.

So Beowulf set out then as one of twelve, swollen with rage, the lord of the Geats, to seek out the dragon. He had learned then how the feud arose, the deadly hatred towards men - into his possession had come the precious cup from the hand of the finder. He who brought about the beginning of that strife was the thirteenth man in the band, a captive sad in heart, who had to point the way against his will. He went to the earth-vault unwillingly, under compulsion, where he alone knew it was, a heathen hall, not far beneath the waves, where inside were wrought treasures, heaped-up ancient gold; a terrible guardian, a ready fighter, held watch over the golden hoard. It was no easy trade, for any man to go and gain that hoard.

Then the king, strong in battle, sat down on the cliff, while he wished luck in war to his hearth-companions. His spirit was sad, restless and ready for death; fate was immeasurably near which must seek out the old man, touch the lord of treasure, part life from body. Not long after that would the prince’s spirit be concealed in flesh.

Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, spoke: “Many war-rushes I survived in youth, many hours of battle; I remember it all. I was seven winters old when the treasure-prince, dear lord of the people, took me from my father; King Hrethel kept me and took possession of me, gave me treasure and a feast, remembered our kinship. I was no more hateful to him in his palace than any of his sons, Herebeald and Hæthcyn or my Hygelac. The eldest, Herebeald, was laid low by a brother’s deed, by a kinsman’s arrow - he missed his mark and shot his brother, one son his father’s son with a bloody shaft. That was a fight beyond compensation, a wrongful crime wearying to the heart - yet the prince had to lose his life unavenged!

It is sorrowful for an old man to live to see his young son riding on the gallows. Then he utters a lament, a sorrowful song, when his son hangs to feast the ravens, and he, old and wise, can do nothing to help. Always in the morning is he reminded of his son’s journey elsewhere; he has no mind to await another heir within his home, when one has through deeds of violence met his destined end. Sorrowing, he sees in his son’s dwelling the wine-hall empty, the windswept home bereft of revelry. The horsemen sleep, the heroes in the grave; there is no sound of harp, no mirth in the courts, as once there was.

He then goes to his bed, chanting alone a song of sorrow for his lost one; fields and dwelling seem too empty for him. Thus the protector of the Weders carried welling grief in his heart for Herebeald - no compensation could he get for that life-loss, try as he might. Nor could he pursue the feud against that warrior, though he was not dear to him. Then with that sorrow which had come to him, he forsook the joys of men; he left to his sons, as a prosperous man does, his land and strongholds, when he departed from life.

There was strife and struggle between the Swedes and Geats, enmity between nations over the wide water, after Hrethel died, and the sons of Ongentheow grew bold and battle-ready, refusing the pact of friendship across the sea, but around Hreosnabeorh often planned cruel and terrible ambushes. That feud and crime my kinsmen avenged, as is well known, though one of them paid for it with his life, a heavy price. Hæthcyn, lord of the Geats, fell in that war-slaughter. Then, in the morning, I have heard, the brother of Ongentheow bought vengeance for that death-blow with the edge of the sword; Eofor smote Ongentheow, when the champion of the Scylfings sought out the war-king. The helmet, the grey-haired, was split asunder. The old Scylfing fell, pale from sword-blows; his hand remembered feud enough, refused not a death-blow.

I repaid Hygelac in battle for the treasures he had given me as was granted to me; he gave me land, a place of my own, a home. He had no need to seek among the Gifthas, or the Spear-Danes, or in Sweden, some lesser champion to buy with a price, but I would always march ahead of him, alone at the front, and so shall I fight with my life-strength as long as this sword endures, which has often served me early and late, since I in battle-valor slew Dæghrefn, champion of the Hugas, before the hosts. By no means could he bring ornaments, a breast-decoration, to the Frisian king, but in battle the standard-keeper fell, prince in his might; the sword-edge was not his slayer, but my battle-grip crushed his bone-house and the surging blood. Now this sword must be used by my hand, battle-hard.”

Beowulf spoke, boasted a last time: “I braved many battles in my youth; yet I will, as the old guardian of my people, still seek conflict, perform a glorious deed, if the evil-doer comes out to me from his earth-hall.” He then spoke to each of those men in turn, bold helm-wearers, dear companions, for the last time: “I would not bear a sword or weapon to battle against the serpent, if I knew how else I might grapple with the monster in my glory as I did before with Grendel. But there I expect fire’s hot battle-surge, blast and poison; therefore I have shield and byrnie. I will not flee even a foot-length from the barrow’s keeper, but it shall be with us at the wall as fate, the ruler of every man, decrees.

I am firm in spirit, so that I refrain from boasting against this winged fighter. You men wait on the barrow in your armor, protected by byrnies, to see which of us two will fare better from deadly wounds after the battle-clash. It is no venture for you, nor a task for any man’s might, except mine alone, to pit his strength against the monster and work a hero’s deed. By my daring, I shall gain the gold, or battle, life’s perilous evil, will take your lord!”

Then by his shield the bold warrior arose, stern under his helmet, and bore his battle-shirt under the stone cliffs; he trusted in his single strength, the might of one man - such is no coward’s act! Then he who, brave in battle, had survived many combats, crashes of encounter, when troops clash, saw by the wall an arch of stone standing, a stream breaking out from the barrow; the surge of that spring was hot with battle-fire - he could not endure unburned any while deep in the cave because of the dragon’s flame.

Then, swollen with rage, the lord of the Geats let a word fly from his breast; the stout-hearted one stormed; his voice, battle-clear, resounded under grey stone. Hatred was stirred as the hoard-keeper perceived the voice of man; there was no more time to seek peace. First came forth the breath of the evil beast from the rock, hot battle-sweat; the earth resounded. The warrior under the barrow, lord of the Geats, swung his mighty shield against the grisly foe, then the heart of the ring-coiled one was eager to seek battle.

The valiant war-king had already drawn his sword, that olden heirloom, undulled of edge. Each of them intended evil for the other, the terrifying one. Stouthearted stood that war-prince with his shield upraised, waited in his war-gear. The dragon coiled together, went forth burning, gliding towards his fate. The shield well-defended life and limb for a lesser while for the glorious king than his desire would have it, there at his first day’s meeting, if fate had allowed him triumph in battle.

The lord of the Geats raised his hand, struck the hideous-colored one with his mighty sword, ancient heirloom, but the brown blade bounced off the bone, bit less strongly than its noble master had need of, hard pressed in battle. Then the barrow’s keeper, after that sword-stroke, was in a savage mood; he cast deadly fire, scattered far and wide the battle-flames. The gold-friend of the Geats did not boast of glorious victories; his war-sword failed him, naked in the fray, as it should not have, that iron which had always been trusty to him.

That was no easy venture for the famous son of Ecgtheow to forsake the earth-plain of his own free will; he had to dwell elsewhere against his desire, as every man must forsake these fleeting days. It was not long after that the fighters met again. The hoard-keeper took heart, heaved with his breast again; distress welled up anew in his narrow stead. He who ruled the people suffered in waves the woe of his foes. No whit did his comrades, sons of princes, stand in a group about him with warlike valor, but they fled to the wood to save their lives. In one of them the heart surged with sorrows - the claims of kinship cannot ever be set aside in one who thinks rightly.

Wiglaf was his name, son of Weohstan, a beloved shield-warrior, lord of the Scylfings, kinsman of Ælfhere. He saw his lord enduring the heat under his battle-mask. He remembered then the favors which Beowulf had given him, the wealthy home of the Wægmundings, every folk-right which his father possessed. He could not restrain himself, but seized the shield, the yellow linden, drew the old sword which was known among men as the heirloom of Eanmund, son of Ohthere, whom, when a friendless exile, Weohstan had slain in fight with the edge of the sword; he brought to his kinsmen the burnished helmet, the ringed byrnie, the old giant-sword that Onela had given him, his nephew’s war-harness, ready war-gear. He spoke not of the feud, though he had killed his brother’s son. He held the spoils for many years, the sword and byrnie, until his son could do a warrior’s deeds, like his father before him; then he gave to him among the Geats countless battle-equipments when he went forth from life, ripe for his passing.

That was the first time for the young champion that he had to engage in the storm of war with his noble lord. His spirit did not melt within him, nor did his kinsman’s heirloom weaken in the fight. The dragon discovered that when they had come together.

Wiglaf spoke many fitting words, said to his companions - his spirit was sad: “I remember that time when we took mead in the beer-hall, when we promised our lord in the banquet-hall, who gave us these rings, that we would repay him for the war-gear, if need like this befell him, for helmets and hard swords. He chose us from the army for this venture of his own will, reminded us of glory, and gave me these treasures because he considered us good spear-warriors, keen helm-bearers, although our lord, protector of the people, intended to achieve this mighty work alone, for he among men had accomplished most of famed deeds and acts of daring. Now the day has come when our lord has need of the strength of good fighters; let us go to him, help our war-chief, while the grim terror of fire lasts!

God knows that for me it is much dearer that the fire should embrace my body with my gold-giver. It does not seem fitting to me that we should bear shields back to our home unless we first fell the foe, defend the life of the Weders’ king. I know well that his former deeds do not merit that he alone of the Geatish strength should suffer pain and sink in battle. Sword and helmet, byrnie and shield, shall be shared by us both.”

He went then through the deadly fumes, bore the war-helmet to the aid of his lord, spoke a few words: “Beloved Beowulf, achieve all things well, as you declared long ago in your youth, that you would not let your glory decline while you lived. Now, resolute prince, famed for your deeds, you must defend your life with all your strength; I shall help you.”

After those words, the dragon angrily came, the dire spirit, for a second time, adorned with surges of flame, to meet his hated foes. The shield was burned away to the rim by waves of fire; the byrnie could not give aid to the young spear-warrior. But the youth went quickly under his kinsman’s shield when his own was consumed by the flames. Then again the war-king remembered glory, struck with great force with his battle-sword so that it stuck in the head, compelled by fury. Nægling shattered; Beowulf’s sword, ancient and grey-etched, failed in the fight - it was not granted to him that iron blades might help him in battle. His hand-swing was too strong, overtaxing every sword, as I have heard, when he bore a wondrous hard weapon to the fray; it was no better for him.

Then the bane of the people, the dread fire-dragon, for a third time was mindful of feuds, rushed on the bold one when a chance was given, hot and battle-grim, seized his neck with savage teeth; Beowulf was bloodied with his life-blood; the gore welled out in surges. Then, in the king’s great need, I have heard, the earl at his side showed courage, skill and strength, as was natural to him. He did not heed the head, but the courageous man’s hand was burned when he helped his kinsman, the man in his armor struck the malicious foe lower down, so that the sword sank in, gleaming and gold-plated, and the fire began to subside after that.

Then the king himself still retained his senses, drew the war-knife, bitter and battle-sharp, which he wore on his mail-coat; the protector of the Weders cut the serpent through the middle. They felled the foe, courage drove out his life, and they had destroyed him, the two noble kinsmen. Such should a man be, a thane in need!

That was the king’s last victory by his own deeds, the end of his life-work. But the wound which the earth-dragon had given him began to burn and swell; he soon realized that a poison was welling up inside him, venom in his breast.