"It is war," said Guthrum to his chiefs. "I have sworn to have England,
and England shall be mine. The Saxons are scattered and at rest, not
dreaming of battle and blood. Now is our time. A hard and sudden blow
will end the war, and the fair isle of England will be the Raven's
spoil."

We may still hear in fancy the wild shouts of approval with which this
stirring declaration was heard. Visions of slaughter, plunder, and rich
domains filled the souls of chiefs and men alike, and their eagerness to
take to the field was such that they could barely wait to hear their
leader's plans.

"Alfred, the Saxon king, must be ours," said Guthrum. "He is the one man
I dread in all the Saxon hosts. They have many hands, but only one head.
Let us seize the head, and the hands are useless. Alfred is at
Chippenham. Thither let us ride at speed."

Their bands were mustered, their arms examined, and food for the
expedition prepared, and then to horse and away! Headlong over the
narrow and forest-bordered roads of that day rode the host of Danes, in
triumphant expectation of victory and spoil.

In his study sat Alfred, on the night of January 6, poring over an
illuminated page; or mayhap he was deep in learned consultation with
some monkish scholar, mayhap presiding at a feast of his thanes: we may
fancy what we will, for history or legend fails to tell us how he was
engaged on that critical evening of his life.

But we may imagine a wide-eyed Saxon sentinel, seared and hasty,
breaking upon the monarch's leisure with the wild alarm-cry,--