Hot-mooded, hateful, they heard the great clamor, The war-trumpet winding. One did the Geat-prince Sunder from earth-joys, with arrow from bowstring, From his sea-struggle tore him, that the trusty war-missile Pierced to his vitals; he proved in the currents Less doughty at swimming whom death had offcarried. Soon in the waters the wonderful swimmer Was straitened most sorely with sword-pointed boar-spears, Pressed in the battle and pulled to the cliff-edge; The liegemen then looked on the loath-fashioned stranger. Beowulf donned then his battle-equipments, Cared little for life; inlaid and most ample, The hand-woven corslet which could cover his body, Must the wave-deeps explore, that war might be powerless To harm the great hero, and the hating one’s grasp might Not peril his safety; his head was protected By the light-flashing helmet that should mix with the bottoms, Trying the eddies, treasure-emblazoned,