ion 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."

"My FATHER!"

"Yes. Didst thou not know that he escaped on St. Brice's night,
baffling his would-be assassins, and yet lives? He thought thee dead,
and only sought vengeance, when he heard from the captured prisoner of
Elfwyn's band that thou wert yet alive, and he is come to seek thee."

Poor Alfgar!

CHAPTER VI. THROUGH SUFFERING TO GLORY.

For a few minutes Alfgar sat like one stunned by the intelligence. Joy
and fear were strangely mingled together; well did he remember
Sidroc's frequent visits to his father's English home, and that the
warrior had more than once taken him in his