The dragon came on in fury; in a trice the flames consumed Wiglaf's
shield, but, nothing daunted, he stepped under the shelter of Beowulf's,
as his own fell in ashes about him. The King remembered his strength of
old, and he smote with his sword with such force that it stuck in the
monster's head, while splinters flew all around. His hand was so strong
that, as men used to say, he broke any sword in using it, and was none
the worse for it.

Now, for the third time, the dragon rushed upon him, and seized him by
the neck with his poisonous fangs. Wiglaf, with no thought for himself,
rushed forward, though he was scorched with the flames, and smote the
dragon lower down than Beowulf had done. With such effect the sword
entered the dragon's body that from that moment the fire began to cease.

The King, recovering his senses, drew his knife and ended the monster's
life. So these two together destroyed the enemy of the people. To
Beowulf that was the greatest moment of his life, when he saw his work
completed.

The wound that the dragon had given him began to burn and swell, for the
poison had entered it. He knew that the tale of his days was told. As he
rested on a stone by the mound, he pondered thoughtfully, looking on the
cunning work of the dwarfs of old, the stone arches on their rocky
pillars. Wiglaf, with tender care, unloosed his helmet and brought him
water, Beowulf discoursing the while: "Now I would gladly have given my
armour to my son, had God granted me one. I have ruled this people fifty
years, and no King has dared attack them. I have held my own with
justice, and no friend has lost his life through me. Though I am sick
with deadly wounds, I have comfort in this. Now go quickly, beloved