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 warrio