astern eminences. A fleet may still
generally be discerned in its waters, but a fleet of pleasure yachts;
far different were the vessels which then sought the shelter of the
lovely harbour, beautiful even then in all the adornment of nature.

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