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Then bent on destruction, and bulging with rage, he forced open the hall’s mouth to move quickly in— a fiend trespassing on the shining floor, his spirit filled with fire.
Many a mead-bench, adorned with gold, flew from the floor, as I have heard told, in the struggle of foes.
The North-Danes recoiled at the horrible terror, as each of their troop heard a wail go up from inside the walls, the enemy of God screaming songs of despair, his cries of defeat—as this captive of hell found his wounds fatal.
while nobles look on the sign of his strength the hand of Grendel high up by the roof, the fingers of the foe—and each one tipped with a thick sharp mail, as strong as steel, the claws of the heathen suited for slashing in horrible slaughter.
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