His death is the beginning of the end. Two hundred years of misery and constant strife set in. General after general makes himself emperor; they come and go in blood; and all the time Britain, despoiled of her youth to rot on foreign fields, is the prey of a pitiless foe. The Caledonians, who are now known as Picts and Scots, actually march on London and carry off its citizens as slaves. A new and even more dreaded foe, the terrible Saxon pirate, has also appeared; there are desperate attempts at defence, but they are one and all in vain. The hour of doom has struck, alike for Empire and Province. The Goth is thundering at the very gates of Rome. All the available troops of the Empire, wherever stationed, are called in to defend the city. The last of the legions leaves British shores in the year 407 amidst the sighs and tears of the defenceless inhabitants, who are now as sheep without a shepherd. Pitiful appeals—“the groans of the Britons”—are sent to Rome; but the weak and indolent emperor merely pauses in the absorbing pastime of feeding his pigeons to tell the despairing islanders that they must provide for their own safety. Thus Britain is left to her fate, and for two long centuries darkness closes round her. “The eagles have flown.” Their glory has departed, and they disappear from the pageant of our history. Rome found the natives warlike, though untrained; she left them helpless and feeble. True, she gave them the benefits of peace; she taught them arts and crafts; she gave them education, and a measure of comfort and prosperity. But she did not teach them how to defend themselves, and so, when overwhelmed by hardier foes, they perished miserably by fire and sword. [Illustration: =THE EMPEROR HADRIAN VISITING A POTTERY IN BRITAIN.= (_From the picture by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, R.A. By kind permission of the Artist._)] [Illustration] Chapter III. THE COMING OF THE ENGLISH. KING ARTHUR AND THE KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE. “_In twelve great battles overcame_ _The heathen hordes, and made a realm and reigned._” THE light burns low on our pageant, and the scene grows dim and confused; yet we know only too well that a desperate struggle is going on. The battle-cries of warriors and the shrieks of the wounded are ever in our ears. The glare of blazing roof-trees lights up for a moment the ghastly scene, and reveals the pitiless work of slaughter. As it flickers out all is gloom and silence; it is the only peace that the stricken land knows. The scene shifts, but the drama is ever the same. There seems to be no end to the hordes of attackers. They come by sea and they come by land; most terrible of all are they whose serpent-headed ships are now seen faintly on the strand. The tide of war sets in their favour, though they are beaten back from time to time before the despairing onset of the Britons.