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 the river, the estuary, with the fleet, and the blue hills of Hampshire in the far distance. Southward and westward the view was alike shut in by these lofty downs, and eastward the hills rose again, so as to enclose the valley, of which Carisbrooke formed the central feature. The ramparts whereon he was standing were of Roman workmanship, built so solidly that they had resisted every attack of man or of time; while down below lay the ruins of a magnificent villa, once occupied by the Roman governor of the island. Anlaf appeared and stood beside his son. "Alfgar," he said, "the day after tomorrow is the day of St. Brice." He paused and looked steadfastly in the face of his son. "And the king proposes to enrol you amongst his chosen warriors on that day; he has marked the skill you have displayed in the mimic contests with spear or sword, your skill as a horseman, and he wishes to see whether in actual battle you will fulfil the promise of the parade ground." "And yet he knows my faith." "Alfgar," said the old man solemnly, "you must renounce it or die; no mercy will be shown to a Christian on St. Brice's day; that is why the king has chosen it. Think, my son, over all I have told you; you will decide like one who yet controls his senses, and not disgrace your aged father." "Father, I do think of you," said the poor lad; "at least believe that. I do not grieve for myself. I feel I could easily die for my faith, but I do grieve over the pain I must cause you." The heart of the old warrior was sensibly affected by this appeal, but not knowing the strength of Christian principle, he could not reconcile it with facts, and he walked sadly away.