A huge fire burned by the side of a brook, over which was roasting the deer which they had killed.  The light shone out in the gathering darkness, and illumined the recesses of the bushes around, and the faces of a large body of men reclining on the bank, or engaged in the task of sharpening their arms while their supper was roasting.  A momentary glance told that they were Danes, thus advancing under the shadow of the forest, to take their foes unawares.  Their horses were picketed around, and sentinels were evidently posted, to give the first alarm of any danger.

Alas! they had seen the poor lads before they could withdraw into the woods which fringed the path, and instantly prepared for pursuit.  Three or four jumped upon their horses, two or three more plunged into the wood to cut off the retreat.  It was all-important to their plans that their presence should not be discovered; and these manoeuvres were executed in perfect silence.

They had not seen the theows behind, but fixed all their attention on Bertric and Alfgar, who, on their part, comprehending their danger, turned at right angles into the wood, and ran for life.  The boys were fleet of foot, and would probably have distanced their pursuers, but an arrow from some ambush on their left hand pierced Alfgar’s thigh, wounding an important muscle, and he could run no farther.

“Leave me, leave me, Bertric,” he cried; “you are in more danger than I.”

Poor Bertric would not leave his friend.  He tried to assist him, and turned a deaf ear to all solicitations for the few moments that they could have availed.  It was soon too late, and the heavy hands of the Danish warriors were laid upon them.

Shuddering at the contact, they yet yielded without useless and unmanly resistance, and were at once led to the side of the fire.

It was a scene Salvator Rosa would have loved to paint:  the firelight bringing out in strong relief the huge limbs of the oak trees, the bronzed faces of those dread warriors, which no pitiful or tender feelings ever seemed to visit.

The theows had fortunately, being behind, taken the alarm in time, and escaped unnoticed by the Danes.

A large athletic warrior, but yet a man of some age, rose from his seat by the fire, and scrutinised the captives.  Alfgar knew him.  It was Sidroc, an old fellow warrior of his father, who had often visited their home near Aescendune, and he was at no loss now to comprehend the object of their enterprise.

The warrior gazed upon him fixedly, and then spoke aloud.

“Whence your name and lineage?  Your face is not of the hue of the faces of the children of the land.  Speak! who art thou?”

“Alfgar, the son of Anlaf.”

“Thor and Woden be praised!  We had learned that you yet lived.  Boy, thou art the object of our search.  Thou, the descendant of kings, mayst not longer dwell with slaves.  Thy father is at hand.”