Fitt XIV — Rejoicing of the Danes

In the morning mist, warriors gather around the gift-hall from near and far on long journeys to see the wonder — the footprints of the enemy. Few of them feel much grief at Grendel's parting from life; they follow the tracks where the defeated creature dragged himself away, weary in spirit and beaten in combat, down to the water-monsters' pool. There the currents bubble with blood, the angry eddies stir and churn, seething with gore, welling up with sword-blood. The death-doomed creature had hidden himself there, stripped of all joy, and had laid down his life in the lair to which he fled. His heathen spirit went where hell received him.

The warriors turn back. Young men ride briskly from the scene, striding on stallions, heroes on horseback. Beowulf's praises fill the air: many declare again and again that no one, south or north, anywhere between the seas, under the arch of the sky, is a better shield-bearing warrior, none more worthy to rule. Yet no word of blame falls against their own gracious lord Hrothgar — he was a good king, and the poem insists on this alongside its celebration of the foreigner who solved the problem the king could not solve for twelve years.

The famous riders let their horses run in contest, and now and then a skilled thane of the king — a man with ancient traditions stored in memory — weaves new phrases together and begins to tell of Beowulf's venture. The scop links him to Sigmund, son of Waels, the famous dragon-slayer of legend, praising Beowulf's glory among the nations. Against Sigmund's reputation the scop places Heremod — a king who turned against his own people, gave no rings to the Danes for their honor, lived in joylessness. The contrast is explicit: Beowulf is the right kind of hero, not the Heremod kind. The tradition is already sorting him into its categories.