Alfred, finding it was in vain to conclude treaties with such a perfidious race of people, resolved to take more effectual measures to secure himself from their treachery. For this purpose he convened a general assembly. He represented to them that they had nothing to trust to but their own valour and courage, to deliver them from their miseries, and urged upon them the absolute necessity of venturing their lives in defence of their country, and of sacrificing part of their estates to preserve the remainder. His eloquent remonstrances having produced the effect he expected, a force was levied, with which he went after the enemy, who had taken Exeter. Finding that they could not be dislodged from the castle, he was once more constrained to treat with the invaders; and though he could place no great dependence upon their promises, it was the only way by which he could put an end to a disastrous war. The new treaty, in which the Danes undertook not to return any more into Wessex, was somewhat better kept than the former one. The respite, however, was an exceedingly brief one, and in the year 878 Alfred's fortunes were at their lowest ebb. In the beginning of the year the Danes fitted out an expedition with great secrecy, the object of which was to overwhelm Wessex. The attack took place so suddenly that Alfred was ill prepared to meet it. Chippenham was taken, and the dispirited English no longer felt courage to prosecute the war. Many fled, whilst others (and of them not a few) leagued themselves with the Danes, swearing allegiance to them. So general was the defection, that the unhappy monarch found himself deserted by all but a few domestics and faithful friends, who still adhered to his fallen fortunes. In this extremity, he showed himself greater, perhaps, than when on the throne, and acted with a prudence and wisdom which few princes would have found courage to imitate. He dismissed them all; and, with no other support than his courage and patriotism, set forth a wanderer, alone, and on foot, in the kingdom he had so lately reigned over. Such was his poverty that the uncrowned king was compelled to solicit shelter in the hut of a neat-herd in the island of Athelney, in Somersetshire, a remote spot, surrounded by a dangerous marsh, wild and desolate as his own fortunes, and only to be approached by a single path, and that but little known. Here the fugitive had time to repair his shattered health, collect his thoughts, and meditate on plans for the future delivery of his oppressed and outraged country. Savage and uninviting as was his retreat, it afforded that which he had most need of, safety.