Alas! they had seen the poor lads before they could withdraw into the
woods which fringed the path, and instantly prepared for pursuit.
Three or four jumped upon their horses, two or three more plunged into
the wood to cut off the retreat. It was all-important to their plans
that their presence should not be discovered; and these manoeuvres
were executed in perfect silence.

They had not seen the theows behind, but fixed all their attention 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.