Thronged in great crowds; their battle-armor sang;
Their spears they brandished, angry in their hearts,
Under the roof of shields; they fain would see
Whether those hapless men were yet alive,
Who fast in chains within their prison-walls 130
Had dwelt a while in comfortless abode,
And which one they might first for their repast
Rob of his life after the time ordained.
They had set down, those slaughter-greedy foes,
In runic characters and numerals
The death-day of those men, when they should serve
As food unto that famine-stricken tribe.
Then clamored loudly that cold-hearted brood;
Throng pressed on throng; their cruel counsellors
Recked not at all of mercy or of right.
Oft did their souls, led by the devil's lore, 140
Under the dusky shadows penetrate,
When in the might of beings ever-cursed
They put their trust. They found that holy man,
Prudent of mind, within his prison dark,
Awaiting bravely what the radiant King,
Creator of the angels, should vouchsafe.
Then was accomplished, all except three nights,
The appointed time, the season foreordained,
Which those fierce wolves of war had written down,
At end of which they planned to break his bones, 150
And, parting straight his body and his soul,
To portion out as food to old and young
The body of the slain, a welcome feast;
They cared not for the soul, those greedy men,