So the king disguised himself as a minstrel, and with Egwina, the gleemaiden, set forth for the camp of the Dane. After they had emerged from the forest, they began singing and playing as they wended their way through the villages. The people flocked after them, and many were the invitations extended to tarry at some hall, but the supposed minstrel and his daughter refused them, and kept steadily on their way to the Danish camp. It was a well fortified place, and, as they approached, the keen eyes of the king noted how impregnable its walls were. “Should we ever succeed in freeing the land from the invaders,” he said thoughtfully, “the lesson will not have been in vain. Behold those walls, Egwina! How staunch and firm they be! If God so pleases to bestow peace upon us for a time, fortresses shall be reared, ships made, and the coasts defended; so that never again shall Norseman or foe of any kind ravage the country.” They came to the gates, and there paused, singing their sweetest melodies. The warders listened and opened to them. Minstrels were held in such esteem that Saxon and Dane alike looked upon them as non-combatants, and admitted them freely to the halls of either side. So it happened that the king and the maiden were soon amusing the warriors within the camp. They roared with merriment at the tricks of the minstrel, and listened entranced to the singing of Egwina. “To Guthrum! To Guthrum they must go!” cried one of the crowd which surrounded them. “’Twill warm the heart of the king to hear them!” So to the abode of Guthrum were they taken. The king sat on his high seat at meat when the warden spake to him: “A Saxon minstrel is without, good king. The strings he touches with a master’s hand; and as he plays the maiden with him sings to his harp tales of heroes and brave deeds. Fair is she, and rarely well doth she sing. In sooth, the tricks the gleeman gives are good also.” “Then let them enter,” said the king. “Heavy lieth the heart of Guthrum in his breast for darkness hath settled over him, and he feareth evil to come.” “Enter, minstrel. My lord’s heart is heavy, ease it with thy art,” and the warder conducted them into the hall where Guthrum sat with his jarls. “Strike thy harp, skald,” said Guthrum, “and choose some lay that will lighten the shadow which the death goddess, Hela, hath thrown over my soul. For to-night, Guthrum sitteth in darkness.” Alfred gazed in compassion on the noble countenance and broad forehead of the Dane before him. A wish to ease the burthen which evidently oppressed him by infusing into his soul some of that comfort which never failed, filled him. Striking his harp with a strong twang of the strings after the fashion of harpers, he exclaimed loudly, “Hwaet!” (what). The clamour of the surrounding voices was hushed instantly and he began to sing.