On their mead-weary foes. With the might of their hands
230 Their shining swords from their sheaths they drew forth.
With the choicest of edges the champions they smote—
Furiously felled the folk of Assyria,
The spiteful despoilers. They spared not a one
Of the hated host, neither high nor low
235 Of living men that they might overcome.
So the kinsmen-companions at the coming of morning
Followed the foemen, fiercely attacking them,
Till, pressed and in panic, the proud ones perceived