BEOWULF returned to his own kingdom, laden with honour and gifts, and the Geats in time acclaimed him as their king.

For fifty years he reigned, and subdued all his enemies, except one: a fire-breathing dragon, that greedily guarded a vast treasure in its mountain lair.

One day, a poor servant doing his idle master’s bidding took from the cave a single jewelled cup, as its jealous guardian slept.

When the worm awoke and missed its precious cup, filled with wrath it soared into the air, and rushed upon the valley consuming in fire houses and fields, women and children.

Beowulf himself went out to meet it, with his trusted companion Wiglaf.* Together they slew the dragon, but Beowulf had breathed the dragon-fire.

His grief-stricken people cared little for the unguarded treasure in the mountains. Instead, they took Beowulf’s body and piled it high with dragon’s gold, and sang songs of farewell to the mildest, the humblest, the most beloved of men.