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.
