In hope of food, the wolves,
remorseless beasts of slaughter, sang a grim eveningsong; dogging
the march of the foe, they abode the coming of death; the march
warders howled in the midnight. The doomed soul fled; the host
was compassed about.
(ll. 170-199) Now and again the proud thanes of the host measured
the mile-paths on their steeds. The prince of men rode forth
before the troops, the war-king raised the standard; the
battle-warden bound on helm and chinguard (banners gleamed) in
expectation of war, shook his armour, and bade his warlike host,
his firm-ranked cohorts, go boldly into battle. The foe beheld
with hostile eyes the coming of the landsmen. About him fearless
fighters moved; grey wolves of war went forward to the onslaught
thirsting for battle, loyal of heart. He chose the flower of his
people for that service, two thousand far-famed heroes of high
birth, kings and kinsmen. And each led out his men, and all the
warriors that he well could muster in the appointed time. The
young men were gathered together, the kings in their pomp.
Frequently sounding, the we!l-known voice of the horn signalled
the host where the war-troop of heroes should bear their arms.
So the dark horde was marshalled; throng after throng, in
thousands, hasted thither, a countless host. They were resolved,
in vengeance for their brothers, to slay the tribes of Israel
with the sword, at the break of day.
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