A wondrous hard weapon; naught it was to him better.

Then was the folk-scather for the third of times yet,

The fierce fire-drake, all mindful of feud;

He rac'd on that strong one, when was room to him given,

Hot and battle-grim; he all the halse of him gripped

With bitter-keen bones; all bebloody'd he waxed

With the gore of his soul. Well'd in waves then the war-sweat.

[ XXXVII. THEY TWO SLAY THE WORM. BEOWULF IS WOUNDED DEADLY: HE BIDDETH WIGLAF BEAR OUT THE TREASURE.]

Then heard I that at need of the high king of folk

The upright earl made well manifest might,