Had worked on the West-Danes not once, but often, When he slew in slumber the subjects of Hrothgar, Swallowed down fifteen sleeping retainers Of the folk of the Danemen, and fully as many Carried away, a horrible prey. He gave him requital, grim-raging champion, When he saw on his rest-place weary of conflict Grendel lying, of life-joys bereavèd, As the battle at Heorot erstwhile had scathed him; His body far bounded, a blow when he suffered, Death having seized him, sword-smiting heavy, And he cut off his head then. Early this noticed The clever carles who as comrades of Hrothgar Gazed on the sea-deeps, that the surging wave-currents Were mightily mingled, the mere-flood was gory: Of the good one the gray-haired together held converse, The hoary of head, that they hoped not to see again The atheling ever, that exulting in victory He’d return there to visit the distinguished folk-ruler: Then many concluded the mere-wolf had killed him. The ninth hour came then. From the ness-edge departed The bold-mooded Scyldings; the gold-friend of heroes Homeward betook him. The strangers sat down then