While thus the grief-stricken lord of the Scyldings brooded over his
wrongs, and the people besought their idols vainly for aid, the tidings of
Grendel's ravages were conveyed to the court of the Gothic king, Higelac,
and thus reached the ears of a highborn thane, Beowulf. A strong man was
he, his grasp equal to that of thirty men.
Straightway commanded he a goodly ship to be made ready, chose fifteen of
his bravest Goths, and swiftly they sailed over the swan-path to the great
headlands and bright sea-cliffs of the Scyldings.
High on the promontory stood the guard of Hrothgar. "What men be ye who
hither come?" cried he. "Not foes, surely. Ye know no pass word, yet
surely ye come on no evil errand. Ne'er saw I a greater lord than he who
leads the band. Who are ye?"
"Higelac's man am I," answered the leader. "Ecgtheow, my sire; my name,
Beowulf. Lead me, I pray thee, to thy lord, for I have come over seas to
free him forever from his secret foe, and to lift the cloud that hangs
over the stately mead-hall."
Over the stone-paved streets the warder led the warriors, their armor
clanking, their boar-tipped helmets sparkling, to the goodly hall, Heorot.
There were they warmly welcomed, for Hrothgar had known Beowulf's sire;
the fame of the young man's strength had also reached him, and he trusted
that in his strong grasp Grendel should die.
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