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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.
Eyes were watching his evil steps, waiting to see his swift hard claws. Grendel snatched at the first Geat he came to, ripped him apart, cut his body to bits with 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. Then he stepped to another still body, clutched at Beowulf with his claws, grasped at a strong-hearted wakeful sleeper-and was instantly seized himself.
That shepherd of evil, guardian of crime, knew at once that nowhere on earth had he met a man whose hands were harder. All of Beowulf's band had jumped from their beds, ancestral swords raised and ready, determined to protect their prince if they could.
Their courage was great but wasted: They could 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 at 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 has gone. He twisted in pain, and the bleeding sinews deep in his shoulder snapped, muscle and bone split and broke. The battle was over, Beowulf had been granted new glory: Grendel escaped, but wounded as he was could flee to his den, his miserable hole at the bottom of the marsh, only to die, to wait for the end of all his days.And after that bloody combat the Danes laughed with delight.
He who had come to them from across the sea, bold and strong-minded, had driven affliction off, purged Herot clean.He was happy, now, that night's fierce work; the Danes had been served as he's boasted he'd serve them; Beowulf, a prince of the Geats, had killed Grendel, ended the grief, the sorrow, the suffering forced of Hrothgar's helpless people by a bloodthirsty fiend. no Dane doubted the victory, for the proof, hanging high from the rafters where Beowulf had hung it, was the monster's arm, claw and shoulder and all.
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