STILL, even then his life might have been forfeit in the unequal combat, had he not chanced to espy among the armour lying scattered about the hall, an old cutlass of huge size and strength of blade, larger than an ordinary man could have carried, let alone used in battle, — the handiwork of giants. On this Beowulf blindly seized — beside himself, despairing of his life — and struck in his fury; the blow caught the beldame* in the neck, severed the bone, she dropped on the pavement, — the work was done.

He was alone. He now had leisure to scan the apartment with his eye; he slowly walked all round it, along by the wall, the magic weapon swung aloft by the hilt, for fear of surprises. Suddenly, he came upon a hideous object — Grendel, bereft of life, lying where he fell, as he reached his lake home on that fatal night. The hero’s blood boiled at the sight; he at once decided he would bring back to the upper world a better trophy than a hand and arm:* so, raising high the cutlass, he struck off the head. Then, before his eyes, there came to pass a thing whereat he marvelled much; no sooner had the blade touched the monster’s black gore, than it began to melt away, even as ice when the spring breathes upon it.