The soul was eager to get himself away.
It wished to flee into some hiding place,
to seek a devil’s hospice. It not was his experience there
such as in the days of his life before he ever met.
The good one, Higelach’s kinsman, remembered his evening-speech.
He stood upright and laid hold on him tightly.
Fingers burst. The man-eater made to throw himself out,
and so the hero stepped along with him.
The famous one thought of where he could so reach by flight (a more remote place)
and away there to flee into a fen-retreat.
He knew his fingers were in control of the hostile one’s claws.
What a sorrowful journey that the harm-giver made to Heorot.