To the youthful spear-hero: but the young-agèd stripling Quickly advanced ’neath his kinsman’s war-target, Since his own had been ground in the grip of the fire. Then the warrior-king was careful of glory, He soundly smote with sword-for-the-battle, That it stood in the head by hatred driven; Naegling was shivered, the old and iron-made Brand of Beowulf in battle deceived him. ’Twas denied him that edges of irons were able To help in the battle; the hand was too mighty Which every weapon, as I heard on inquiry, Outstruck in its stroke, when to struggle he carried The wonderful war-sword: it waxed him no better. Then the people-despoiler⁠—third of his onsets⁠— Fierce-raging fire-drake, of feud-hate was mindful, Charged on the strong one, when chance was afforded, Heated and war-grim, seized on his neck With teeth that were bitter; he bloody did wax with Soul-gore seething; sword-blood in waves boiled.