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aped from dead bodies. One a ring
held up, and laughed: ‘Now, mates,’ he cried,
‘here’s mine! And I’ll not be denied,
though few be like it in the land.
For I ’twas wrenched it from the hand
of that same Barahir I slew,
the robber-knave. If tales be true,
he had it of some elvish lord,
for the rogue-service of his sword.
No help it gave him—he’s dead.
They’re parlous, elvish rings, ’tis said;
still for the gold I’ll keep it, yea
and so eke out my niggard pay.
Old Sauron bade me bring it back,
and yet, methinks, he has no lack
of weightier treasures in his hoard:
the greater the greedier the lord!
So mark ye, mates, ye all shall swear
the hand of Barahir was bare!’
And as he spoke an arrow sped
from tree behind, and forward dead
choking he fell with barb in throat;
with leering face the earth he smote.
Forth then as wolfhound grim there leapt
Beren among them. Two he swept
aside with sword; caught up the ring;
slew one who grasped him; with a spring
back into shadow passed, and fled
before their yells of wrath and dread
of ambush in the valley rang.
Then after him like wolves they sprang,
howling and cursing, gnashing teeth,
hewing and bursting through the heath,
shooting wild arrows, sheaf on sheaf,
at trembling shade or shaken leaf.
In fateful hour was Beren born:
he laughed at dart and wailing horn;
fleetest of foot of living men,
tireless on fell and light on fen,
elf-wise in wood, he passed away,
defended by his hauberk grey,
of dwarvish craft in Nogrod made,
where hammers rang in cavern’s shade.
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As fearless Beren was renowned: