In days to come, he contrived to avenge

the fall of his prince; he befriended Eadgils

when Eadgils was friendless, aiding his cause

with weapons and warriors over the wide sea,

sending him men. The feud was settled

on a comfortless campaign when he killed Onela.

The day of reckoning: Beowulf and his troop reconnoitre.

And so the son of Ecgtheow had survived

every extreme, excelling himself

in daring and in danger, until the day arrived

when he had to come face to face with the dragon.

The lord of the Geats took eleven comrades

and went in a rage to reconnoitre.

By then he had discovered the cause of the affliction

being visited on the people. The precious cup

had come to him from the hand of the finder,

the one who had started all this strife

and was now added as a thirteenth to their number.

They press-ganged and compelled this poor creature

to be their guide. Against his will

he led them to the earth-vault he alone knew,

an underground barrow near the billowing sea

and the heave of the waves, heaped inside

with exquisite metalwork. The one who stood guard

was dangerous and watchful, warden of that trove

buried under earth: no easy bargain

would be made in that place by any man.

The veteran king sat down on the cliff-top.

He wished good luck to the Geats who had shared

his hearth and his gold. He was sad at heart,

unsettled yet ready, sensing his death.

His fate hovered near, unknowable but certain:

it would soon claim his coffered soul,

part life from limb. Before long

the prince's spirit would spin free from his body.

An accidental killing and its sad consequences for Hrethel.

Hrethel's loss reflected in 'the father's lament'.

Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, spoke:

'Many a skirmish I survived when I was young

and many times of war: I remember them well.

At seven, I was fostered out by my father,

left in the charge of my people's lord.

King Hrethel kept me and took care of me,

was open-handed, behaved like a kinsman.

While I was his ward, he treated me no worse

as a wean about the place than one of his own boys,

Herebeald and Haethcyn, or my own Hygelac.

For the eldest, Herebeald, an unexpected

deathbed was laid out, through a brother's doing,

when Haethcyn bent his horn-tipped bow

and loosed the arrow that destroyed his life.

He shot wide and buried a shaft

in the flesh and blood of his own brother.

That offence was beyond redress, a wrongfooting

of the heart's affections; for who could avenge

the prince's life or pay his death-price?

It was like the misery endured by an old man

who has lived to see his son's body

swing on the gallows. He begins to keen

and weep for his boy, watching the raven

gloat where he hangs: he can be of no help.

The wisdom of age is worthless to him.

Morning after morning, he wakes to remember

that his child is gone; he has no interest

in living on until another heir

is born in the hall, now that his first-born

has entered death's dominion for ever.

He gazes sorrowfully at his son's dwelling,

the banquet hall bereft of all delight,

the windswept hearthstone; the horsemen are sleeping,

the warriors under ground; what was is no more.