tell the secret of his abode. For the present it must be known to none
but himself.

Meanwhile, the cavalry of Guthrum were raiding the country far and wide.
Alfred had escaped, but England lay helpless in their grasp. News
travelled slowly in those days. Everywhere the Saxons first learned of
the war by hearing the battle-cry of the Danes. The land was overrun.
England seemed lost. Its only hope of safety lay in a man who would not
acknowledge defeat, a monarch who could bide his time.

The lonely journey of the king led him to the centre of Somersetshire.
Here, at the confluence of the Tone and the Parret, was a small island,
afterwards known as Ethelingay, or Prince's Island. Around it spread a
wide morass, little likely to be crossed by his pursuers. Here, still
disguised, the fugitive king sought a refuge from his foes.

For several months Alfred remained in this retreat, his place of refuge
during part of the time being in the hut of a swineherd; and thereupon
hangs a tale. Whether or not the worthy herdsman knew his king,
certainly the weighty secret was not known to his wife. One day, while
Alfred sat by the fire, his hands busy with his bow and arrows, his head
mayhap busy with plans against the Danes, the good woman of the house
was engaged in baking cakes on the hearth.

Having to leave the hut for a few minutes, she turned to her guest, and
curtly bade him watch the cakes, to see that they did not get overdone.

"Trust me for that," he said.

She left the room. The cakes smoked on the hearth, yet he saw them not.