Out from the marsh, from the foot of misty hills and bogs, bearing God's hatred, Grendel came hoping to kill anyone he could trap on this trip to high Herot.
Grendel snatched at the first Geat he came to, ripped him apart, cut his body into bits with his powerful jaws, drank the blood from his veins, and bolted him down, hands and feet; death and Grendel's great teeth came together, snapping life shut.
I, Beowulf, boasted that I would take down Grendel, and now I have completed my task.
Then he stepped to another still body, clutched at Beowulf with his claws, grasped at the strong-hearted wakeful sleeper- and was instantly seized himself...
There's the arm!
Look! The legend is true!
All of Beowulf's band had jumped from their beds, ancestral swords raised high, determined to protect their prince if they could. Their strength and courage was great but wasted: They could not hack at Grendel from every side, trying to open a path for his evil soul, but their points could not hurt him, the sharpest and hardest iron could not scratch a his skin...
Now he discovered- once the afflictor of men, tormentor of their days- what it meant to feud with Almighty God: Grendel saw that his strength was deserting him, his claws bound fast, Higlac's brave follower tearing at his hands. The monster's hatred rose higher, but his power had gone. He twisted in pain, and the bleeding sinews deep in his shoulder snapped, muscle and bone split and broke.
From the rafters where Beowulf had hung it, was the monster's arm, claw and shoulder and all.