Contrary words.

Beowulf's coming, His sea-braving, made him sick with envy:

He could not brook or abide the fact That anyone else alive under heaven

Might enjoy greater regard than he did: "Are you the Beowulf who took on Breca

In a swimming match on the open sea, Risking the water just to prove you could

win?

It was sheer vanity made you venture out On the main deep.

And no matter who tried, Friend or foe, to deflect the pair of you,

Neither would back down: the sea-test obsessed you.

You waded in, embracing water, Taking its measure, mastering currents,

Riding on the swell.

The ocean swayed, Winter went wild in the waves, but you vied

For seven nights; and then he outswam you, Came ashore the stronger contender.

He was cast up safe and sound one morning Among the Heathoreams, then made his way

To where he belonged in Bronding country, Home again, sure of his ground

In strong room and bawn.

So Breca made good His boast upon you and was proved right.

No matter, therefore, how you may have fared In every bout and battle until now,

This time you'll be worsted; no one has ever Outlasted an entire night against Grendel."

Beowulf, Ecgtheow's son, replied: "Well, friend Unferth, you have had your say

About Breca and me.

But it was mostly beer That was doing the talking.

The truth is this: When the going was heavy in those high waves,

I was the strongest swimmer of all.

We'd been children together and we grew up Daring ourselves to outdo each other,

Boasting and urging each other to risk Our lives on the sea.

And so it turned out.

Each of us swam holding a sword, A naked, hard-proofed blade for protection

Against the whale-beasts.

But Breca could never Move out farther or faster from me

Than I could manage to move from him.

Shoulder to shoulder, we struggled on For five nights, until the long flow

And pitch of the waves, the perishing cold, Night falling and winds from the North

Drove us apart.

The deep boiled up And its wallowing sent the sea-brutes wild.

My armor held me to hold out; My hard-ringed chain-mail, hand-forged and

linked, A fine, close-fitting filigree of gold,

Kept me safe when some ocean creature Pulled me to the bottom.

Pinioned fast And swathed in its grip, I was granted one

Final chance: my sword plunged And the ordeal was over.

Through my own hands The fury of battle had finished off the sea-beast.

"Time and again, foul things attacked me, Lurking and stalking, but I lashed out,

Gave as good as I got with my sword.

My flesh was not for feasting on, There would be no monsters gnawing and gloating

Over their banquet at the bottom of the sea.

Instead, in the morning, mangled and sleeping The sleep of the sword, they slopped and floated

Like the ocean's leavings.

From now on Sailors would the safe, the deep-sea raids

Were over for good.

Light came from the East, Bright guarantee of God, and the waves

Went quiet; I could see the headlands And buffeted cliffs.

Often, for undaunted courage, Fate spares the man it has not already marked.

However it had occurred, my sword had killed Nine sea monsters.

Such night-dangers And hard ordeals I have never heard of

Nor of a man so desolate in surging waves.

But worn out as I was, I survived, Came through with my life.

The ocean lifted And laid me ashore, I landed safe On the coast

of Finland.

Now, I cannot recall any fight you entered, Unferth,

That bears comparison.

I don't boast when I say That neither you nor Breca ever were much

Celebrated for swordsmanship Or for facing danger in the battlefield.

You killed your own kith and kin, So for all your cleverness and quick tongue,

You will suffer damnation in the pits of hell.

The fact it, Unferth, if you were truly As keen or courageous as you claim to be

Grendel would never have got away with Such unchecked atrocity, attacks on your king,

Havoc in Heorot and horrors everywhere.

But he knows he need never be in dread Of your blade making a mizzle of his blood

Or of vengeance arriving ever from this quarter--- From the Victory-Shieldings, the shoulderers

of the spear.

He knows he can trample down you Danes To his heart's content, humiliate and murder

Without fear of reprisal.

But he will find me different.

I will show him how Geats shape to kill In the heat of battle.

Then whoever wants to May go bravely to morning mead, when morning

light, Scarfed in sun-dazzle, shines forth from the

south And brings another daybreak to the world."