There the Danes cast anchor, and the forces dispersed to their winter quarters.  The king and his favourite chieftains took up their abode at Carisbrooke, situate about eight miles up the stream, but above the spot where it ceases to be navigable.

Their chosen retreat was the precincts of the old castle—­old even then—­for it had been once a British stronghold, commanding the route of the Phoenician tin merchants across the island, whence its name “Caer brooke,” or the “fort on the stream.”

The Romans in after ages saw the importance of the position, fortified it yet more strongly, and made it the chief military post of the island, which, under their protecting care, enjoyed singular peace and prosperity—­civilisation flourished, arts and letters were cultivated.  The beautiful coasts and inlets were crowded with villas, and invalids then, as now, sought the invigorating breezes, from all parts of the island of Britain, and even from the neighbouring province of Gaul.

The Roman power fell at last, and when the English pirates, our own ancestors, like the Danes of our story, attacked the dismembered provinces of the empire, its wealth and position on the coast made it an early object of attack—­happy those who fled early.  The Anglo-Saxon chronicle shall tell the story of those who remained.

“Ad. 530.  This year Cerdic and Cynric conquered the Isle of Wight, and slew many people at Whitgarasbyrg” (Carisbrooke).

The conquering Cerdic died four years after, and his son Cynric gave the island to his nephews, Stuf and Wihtgar.  The latter died in 544, and was buried in the spot he and his had reddened with blood, within the Roman ramparts of Carisbrooke.

It is needless to say that at that early period our ancestors were heathens, and the mode of their conquest was precisely similar to that we are now describing under another heathen (with less excuse), Sweyn the son of Harold.

It was a few days after the arrival of the Danes at their quarters, and Alfgar stood on the rampart at the close of a November day; it was St. Martin’s Mass, as the festival was then called.  The sun was sinking with fading splendour behind the lofty downs in the west, and casting his departing beams on the river, the estuary, with the fleet, and the blue hills of Hampshire in the far distance.

Southward and westward the view was alike shut in by these lofty downs, and eastward the hills rose again, so as to enclose the valley, of which Carisbrooke formed the central feature.

The ramparts whereon he was standing were of Roman workmanship, built so solidly that they had resisted every attack of man or of time; while down below lay the ruins of a magnificent villa, once occupied by the Roman governor of the island.

Anlaf appeared and stood beside his son.

“Alfgar,” he said, “the day after tomorrow is the day of St. Brice.”

He paused and looked steadfastly in the face of his son.