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42 in his wanton mood, of weapons recks not; hence shall I scorn—so Hygelac stay, king of my kindred, kind to me!— brand or buckler to bear in the fight, gold-colored targe: but with gripe alone must I front the fiend and fight for life, foe against foe. Then faith be his in the doom of the Lord whom death shall take. Fain, I ween, if the fight he win, in this hall of gold my Geatish band will he fearless eat,—as oft before,— my noblest thanes. Nor need’st thou then to hide my head; for his shall I be, dyed in gore, if death must take me; and my blood-covered body he’ll bear as prey, ruthless devour it, the roamer-lonely, with my life-blood redden his lair in the fen: no further for me need’st food prepare! To Hygelac send, if Hild should take me, best of war-weeds, warding my breast,