Hero-Myths & Legends of the British Race
all! I was only seven years old when King Hrethel took me to bring up,
and loved me as dearly as his own sons, Herebeald, Hathcyn, or my own
dear lord Hygelac. Great was our grief when Hathcyn, hunting in the
forest, slew all unwittingly his elder brother: greater than ordinary
sorrow, because we could not avenge him on the murderer! It would have
given no joy to Hrethel to see his second son killed disgracefully as
a murderer! So we endured the pain till King Hrethel died, borne down
by his bitter loss, and I wept for my protector, my kinsman. Then
Hathcyn died also, slain by the Swedes, and my dear lord Hygelac came
to the throne: he was gracious to me, a giver of weapons, a generous
distributor of treasure, and I repaid him as much as I could in battle
against his foes. Daghrefn, the Frankish warrior who slew my king, I
sent to his doom with my deadly hand-grip: he, at least, should not
show my lord's armour as trophy of his prowess. But this fight is
different: here I must use both point and edge, as I was not wont in
my youth: but here too will I, old though I be, work deeds of valour.
I will not give way the space of one foot, but will meet him here in
his own abode and make all my boasting good. Abide ye here, ye
warriors, for this is not your expedition, nor the work of any man but
me alone; wait till ye know which is triumphant, for I will win the
gold and save my people, or death shall take me." So saying he raised
his great shield, and, unaccompanied, set his face to the dark
entrance, where a stream, boiling with strange heat, flowed forth from
the cave; so hot was the air that he stood, unable to advance far for
the suffocating steam and smoke. Angered by his impotence, Beowulf
raised his voice and shouted a furious defiance to the awesome
guardian of the barrow. Thus aroused, the dragon sprang up, roaring
hideously and flapping his glowing wings together; out from the
recesses of the barrow came his fiery breath, and then followed the
terrible beast himself. Coiling and writhing he came, with head
raised, and scales of burnished blue and green, glowing with inner
heat; from his nostrils rushed two streams of fiery breath, and his
flaming eyes shot flashes of consuming fire. He half flew, half sprang
at Beowulf. But the hero did not retreat one step. His bright sword
flashed in the air as he wounded the beast, but not mortally, striking
a mighty blow on his scaly head. The guardian of the hoard writhed and
was stunned for a moment, and then sprang at Beowulf, sending forth so
dense a cloud of flaming breath that the hero stood in a mist of fire.
So terrible was the heat that the iron shield glowed red-hot and the
ring-mail on the hero's limbs seared him as a furnace, and his breast
swelled with the keen pain: so terrible was the fiery cloud that the
Geats, seated some distance away, turned and fled, seeking the cool
shelter of the neighbouring woods, and left their heroic lord to
suffer and die alone.
Beowulf's Death
Among the cowardly Geats, however, there was one who thought it
shameful to flee--Wiglaf, the son of Weohstan. He was young, but a
brave warrior, to whom Beowulf had shown honour, and on whom he had
showered gifts, for he was a kinsman, and had proved himself worthy.
Now he showed that Beowulf's favour had been justified, for he seized
his shield, of yellow linden-wood, took his ancient sword in hand, and
prepared to rush to Beowulf's aid. With bitter words he reproached his
cowardly comrades, saying: "I remember how we boasted, as we sat in
the mead hall and drank the foaming ale, as we took gladly the gold
and jewels which our king lavished upon us, that we would repay him
for all his gifts, if ever such need there were! Now is the need come
upon him, and we are here! Beowulf chose us from all his bodyguard to
help him in this mighty struggle, and we have betrayed and deserted
him, and left him alone against a terrible foe. Now the day has come
when our lord should see our valour, and we flee from his side! Up,
let us go and aid him, even while the grim battle-flame flares around
him. God knows that I would rather risk my body in the fiery cloud
than stay here while my king fights and dies! Not such disloyalty has
Beowulf deserved through his long reign that he should stand alone in
the death-struggle. He and I will die together, or side by side will
we conquer." The youthful warrior tried in vain to rouse the courage
of his companions: they trembled, and would not move. So Wiglaf,
holding on high his shield, plunged into the fiery cloud and moved
towards his king, crying aloud: "Beowulf, my dear lord, let not thy
glory be dimmed. Achieve this last deed of valour, as thou didst
promise in days of yore, that thy fame should not fall, and I will aid
thee."
The sound of another voice roused the dragon to greater fury, and
again came the fiery cloud, burning up like straw Wiglaf's linden
shield, and torturing both warriors as they stood behind the iron
shield with their heated armour. But they fought on manfully, and
Beowulf, gathering up his strength, struck the dragon such a blow on
the head that his ancient sword was shivered to fragments. The dragon,
enraged, now flew at Beowulf and seized him by the neck with his
poisonous fangs, so that the blood gushed out in streams, and ran down
his corslet. Wiglaf was filled with grief and horror at this dreadful
sight, and, leaving the protection of Beowulf's iron shield, dashed
forth at the dragon, piercing the scaly body in a vital part. At once
the fire began to fade away, and Beowulf, mastering his anguish, drew
his broad knife, and with a last effort cut the hideous reptile
asunder. Then the agony of the envenomed wound came upon him, and his
limbs burnt and ached with intolerable pain. In growing distress he
staggered to a rough ancient seat, carved out of the rock, hard by
the door of the barrow. There he sank down, and Wiglaf laved his brow
with water from the little stream, which boiled and steamed no longer.
Then Beowulf partially recovered himself, and said: "Now I bequeath to
thee, my son, the armour which I also inherited. Fifty years have I
ruled this people in peace, so that none of my neighbours durst attack
us. I have endured and toiled much on this earth, have held my own
justly, have pursued none with crafty hatred, nor sworn unjust oaths.
At all this may I rejoice now that I lie mortally wounded. Do thou, O
dear Wiglaf, bring forth quickly from the cave the treasures for which
I lose my life, that I may see them and be glad in my nation's wealth
ere I die."
Thereupon Wiglaf entered the barrow, and was dazed by the bewildering
hoard of costly treasures. Filling his arms with such a load as he
could carry, he hastened out of the barrow, fearing even then to find
his lord dead. Then he flung down the treasures--magic armour,
dwarf-wrought swords, carved goblets, flashing gems, and a golden
standard--at Beowulf's feet, so that the ancient hero's dying gaze
could fall on the hoard he had won for his people. But Beowulf was now
so near death that he swooned away, till Wiglaf again flung water over
him, and the dying champion roused himself to say, as he grasped his
kinsman's hand and looked at the glittering heap before him:
"I thank God eternal, the great King of Glory,
For the vast treasures which I here gaze upon,
That I ere my death-day might for my people
Win so great wealth. Since I have given my life,
Thou must now look to the needs of the nation;
Here dwell I no longer, for Destiny calleth me!
Bid thou my warriors after my funeral pyre
Build me a burial-cairn high on the sea-cliff's head;
It shall for memory tower up on Hronesness,
So that the seafarers Beowulf's Barrow
Henceforth shall name it, they who drive far and wide
Over the mighty flood their foamy keels.
Thou art the last of all the kindred of Wagmund!
Wyrd has swept all my kin, all the brave chiefs away!
Now must I follow them!"
These last words spoken, Beowulf fell back, and his soul passed away,
to meet the joy reserved for all true and steadfast spirits. The hero
was dead, but amid his grief Wiglaf yet remembered that the dire
monster too lay dead, and the folk were delivered from the horrible
plague, though at terrible cost! Wiglaf, as he mourned over his dead
lord, resolved that no man should joy in the treasures for which so
grievous a price had been paid--the cowards who deserted their king
should help to lay the treasures in his grave and bury them far from
human use and profit. Accordingly, when the ten faithless dastards
ventured out from the shelter of the wood, and came shamefacedly to
the place where Wiglaf sat, sorrowing, at the head of dead Beowulf, he
stilled their cries of grief with one wave of the hand, which had
still been vainly striving to arouse his king by gentle touch, and,
gazing scornfully at them, he cried: "Lo! well may a truthful man say,
seeing you here, safely in the war-gear and ornaments which our dead
hero gave you, that Beowulf did but throw away his generous gifts,
since all he bought with them was treachery and cowardice in the day
of battle! No need had Beowulf to boast of his warriors in time of
danger! Yet he alone avenged his people and conquered the fiend--I
could help him but little in the fray, though I did what I could: all
too few champions thronged round our hero when his need was sorest.
Now are all the joys of love and loyalty ended; now is all prosperity
gone from our nation, when foreign princes hear of your flight and
the shameless deed of this day. Better is death to every man than a
life of shame!"
The Geats stood silent, abashed before the keen and deserved
reproaches of the young hero, and they lamented the livelong day. None
left the shore and their lord's dead corpse; but one man who rode over
the cliff near by saw the mournful little band, with Beowulf dead in
the midst. This warrior galloped away to tell the people, saying: "Now
is our ruler, the lord of the Geats, stretched dead on the plain,
stricken by the dragon which lies dead beside him; and at his head
sits Wiglaf, son of Weohstan, lamenting his royal kinsman. Now is the
joy and prosperity of our folk vanished! Now shall our enemies make
raids upon us, for we have none to withstand them! But let us hasten
to bury our king, to bear him royally to his grave, with mourning and
tears of woe." These unhappy tidings roused the Geats, and they
hastened to see if it were really true, and found all as the messenger
had said, and wondered at the mighty dragon and the glorious hoard of
gold. They feared the monster and coveted the treasure, but all felt
that the command now lay with Wiglaf. At last Wiglaf roused himself
from his silent grief and said: "O men of the Geats, I am not to blame
that our king lies here lifeless. He would fight the dragon and win
the treasure; and these he has done, though he lost his life therein;
yea, and I aided him all that I might, though it was but little I
could do. Now our dear lord Beowulf bade me greet you from him, and
bid you to make for him, after his funeral pyre, a great and mighty
cairn, even as he was the most glorious of men in his lifetime. Bring
ye all the treasures, bring quickly a bier, and place thereon our
king's corpse, and let us bear our dear lord to Hronesness, where
his funeral fire shall be kindled, and his burial cairn built."
The Geats, bitterly grieving, fulfilled Wiglaf's commands. They
gathered wood for the fire, and piled it on the cliff-head; then eight
chosen ones brought thither the treasures, and threw the dragon's body
over the cliff into the sea; then a wain, hung with shields, was