Then I heard that the hero the hoard-treasure plundered, The giant-work ancient reaved in the cavern, Bare on his bosom the beakers and platters, As himself would fain have it, and took off the standard, The brightest of beacons; the bill had erst injured (Its edge was of iron), the old-ruler’s weapon, Him who long had watched as ward of the jewels, Who fire-terror carried hot for the treasure, Rolling in battle, in middlemost darkness, Till murdered he perished. The messenger hastened, Not loth to return, hurried by jewels: Curiosity urged him if, excellent-mooded, Alive he should find the lord of the Weders Mortally wounded, at the place where he left him. ’Mid the jewels he found then the famous old chieftain, His liegelord belovèd, at his life’s-end gory: He thereupon ’gan to lave him with water, Till the point of his word piercèd his breast-hoard. Beowulf spake (the gold-gems he noticed), The old one in sorrow: “For the jewels I look on Thanks do I utter for all to the Ruler, Wielder of Worship, with words of devotion,