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 war. . . Read More