Anlaf watched his son; he knew what his feelings were, and his thoughts were bitter as he felt that, could Alfgar have been consulted, he would be in that English band.

That night they arrived on the banks of the Thames, near Reading, the border of Mercia.  Their passage had been quite unopposed; all the fighting men were in Wessex; and those who had seen the Danish party had fled with terror—­they had not stopped long to plunder, but had speared one or two unfortunate victims who fell in their way, a sight which sickened Alfgar.

The following day they continued their march to the southeast, sometimes hiding in woods, for the country was mainly occupied by Ethelred’s troops; sometimes pursued by larger bodies of horsemen, but always successful in distancing them, until, at the approach of eventide, they came in sight of the entrenched camp of the northern host.  The spot was on the northern borders of the ancient kingdom of Sussex—­the land of the Saxon Ella—­a spot marvelously favoured by nature, occupying the summit of a low hill, which commanded a wide prospect on all sides, while itself almost impregnable when fortified, as it was, by ditches and mounds, dug in the usual Danish fashion, for the Danes owed much of their success to their skill in fortification.

Beautiful in time of peace was the country around, but its desolation was sufficient to sicken the heart.  Blackened ruins lay on every side for miles; nay, they had disfigured the whole day’s journey.  Scarcely a town or hall, unless strongly fortified, had they seen standing, and this for nearly fifty miles.

Within this fortified enclosure the Northmen had collected abundance of spoil, and there they detained many prisoners, whom they held to ransom, putting them to death with the utmost cruelty if the money were not forthcoming at the stipulated time.

When the party of Anlaf arrived at the northern gate, crossing the summit of the ascent on that side, they found it open and almost unguarded, so slight was the danger from the dispirited English—­now too accustomed to the idea of a foe in the heart of the land.

Entering, they beheld a strange scene:  huts rudely constructed of the branches of trees, intermingled sparingly with tents, were disposed at regular intervals.  In the centre, where the main streets crossed, was the royal tent, with the raven banner floating therefrom; and there, at that moment, was the savage tyrant Sweyn in person.

Sweyn was the son of Harold Bluetooth, who reigned in Denmark fifty years, from A.D. 935-985, and who in his old age became a Christian and strove to convert his subjects.  But the ferocious warriors rebelled against him, and were headed by his unnatural son, Sweyn, who, although baptized, renounced Christianity, and fought to restore the bloodstained worship so congenial to the heart of a sea king.  Defeated in battle, the unhappy father fled for his life, and fled in vain, for he was either murdered or died of his wounds.