Unto the old carle give back the hand-slaying,
For that he on Wulf's head the helm erst had sheared,
So that all with the blood stained needs must he bow,
And fell on the field; but not yet was he fey,
But he warp'd himself up, though the wound had touch'd nigh.
But thereon the hard Hygelac's thane there,
Whenas down lay his brother, let the broad blade,
The old sword of eotens, that helm giant-fashion'd
Break over the board-wall, and down the king bowed,
The herd of the folk unto fair life was smitten.