ma of the marshes
more deadly as he padded over the shivering reeds and trembling
rushes, across the bleak moorland and the high cliffs where the fresh
tang of the grey sea was defiled by the hideous stench of a foul beast
of prey. There was fresh food for him to-night, he knew, some blood
more potent than any that for twelve years had come his bestial way.
And he hastened on with greedy eagerness, nightmare incarnate. He
found the great door of the banqueting-hall bolted and barred, but one
angry wrench set at naught the little precautionary measures of mere
men.

The dawn was breaking dim and grey and very chill when Beowulf heard
the stealthy tread without, and the quick-following crash of the bolts
and bars that gave so readily. He made no movement, but only waited.
In an instant the dawn was blotted out by a vast black shadow, and
swifter than any great bear could strike, a scaly hand had struck one
of the friends of Beowulf. In an instant the man was torn from limb to
limb, and in a wild disgust and hatred Beowulf heard the lapping of
blood, the scrunching of bones and chewing of warm flesh as the
monster ravenously devoured him. Again the loathsome hand was
stretched out to seize and to devour. But in the darkness two hands,
like hands of iron, gripped the outstretched arm, and the Grendel knew
that he had met his match at last. The warriors of Beowulf awoke to
find a struggle going on such as their eyes never before beheld, for
it was a fight to the death between man and monster. Vainly they tried
to aid their leader, but their weapons only glanced harmlessly off the
Grendel's scaly hide. Up and down the hall the combatants wrestled,
until the walls shook and the great building itself rocked to its
foundations. Ever and again it seemed as though no human power could
prevail against teeth and claws and demonic fury, and as tables and
benches crashed to the ground and broke under the tramping feet of the
Grendel, it appeared an impossible thing that Beowulf should overcome.
Yet ever tighter and more tight grew the iron grip of Beowulf. His
fingers seemed turned to iron. His hatred and loathing made his grasp
crash through scales, into flesh, and crush the marrow out of the bone
it found there. And when at length the Grendel could no more, and with
a terrible cry wrenched himself free, and fled, wailing, back to the
fenland, still in his grasp Beowulf held the limb. The Grendel had
freed himself by tearing the who