The den was filled with rings of gold, cups, banners, jewels, dishes, and
the arms of the old owner of the treasure. All these did Wiglaf bear forth
to his lord, who surveyed them, and uttered thanks to his Maker, that he
could win such a treasure. Then, turning to Wiglaf, he said, "Now I die.
Build for me upon the lofty shore a bright mound that shall ever remind my
people of me. Far in the distance their ships shall descry it, and they
shall call it Beowulf's mound." Then, giving his arms to Wiglaf, he bade
him enjoy them. "Thou art the last of our race. All save us, fate-driven,
are gone to doom. Thither go I too."
Bitterly did Wiglaf denounce his comrades when he saw them steal from
their hiding-places. "Well may it be said of you that he who gave you your
arms threw them away. No thanks deserve ye for the slaughter of the
dragon! I did my little, but it was not in my power to save my kinsman.
Too few helpers stood about him! Now shall your kin be wanting in gifts.
Void are ye of land-rights! Better is it for an earl to die than to live
with a blasted name!"
Sorrowful were the people when they heard of the death of Beowulf. Full
well they knew with what joy the tidings would be hailed by their enemies,
who would hasten to harry the land, now that their great leader was gone.
The Frisians, the Merovingians, the Franks, the Swedes,--all had their
grievances, which they would hasten to wreak on the Goths when they
learned that the dreaded king was gone.
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