The blent-hair'd, the hoary one, driven to biding,
So that the folk-king fain must he take
Sole doom of Eofor. Him in his wrath then
Wulf the Wonreding reach'd with his weapon,
So that from the stroke sprang the war-sweat in streams
Forth from under his hair; yet naught fearsome was he,
The aged, the Scylfing, but paid aback rathely
With chaffer that worse was that war-crash of slaughter,
Sithence the folk-king turned him thither;
And nowise might the brisk one that son was of Wonred