“Where?” inquired two or three low voices eagerly.

“Creeping up the slope; now get your arrows to your ears; take the opposite men when they arise.”

A few moments, during which men could hear their own hearts beat, when up rose the Danes from the grass like spectres, and rushed for the mound.  A storm of arrows met them, to which nearly half succumbed.

Swinging his axe, Edmund, followed, by the rest, jumped from the mound to meet the survivors; numbers were nearly equal, the English now slightly superior.  Each man met his individual foe.  Young Hermann’s sword broke against a Danish axe; he rushed in and got within the swing of the weapon; both wrestled for the deadly steel, they fell, rolled over and over on the grass; at length Hermann grasped his opponent’s throat like a vice with his mailed hand, and held till the arms of his foe hung nerveless by the side and the face grew black, when, disengaging his right hand, he found his dagger, and drove it to the victim’s heart.

“Well done!” said Edmund; “you are the last, Hermann; Alfgar has finished some time; we have been watching you; this little beginning promises luck tomorrow.

“You and I must retire now, Alfgar.

“Good night, Hermann; good night, my men; wipe your swords on the grass; keep them bright.”

The morning dawned bright and radiant; and with the first appearance of the sun the horns of the English blew their shrill summons, and the whole army awoke as a man.  A hurried meal was partaken of, hurried of necessity, for the Danes were already emerging from their camp, and forming their lines in order of battle.  They evidently meant, as usual, to take the initiative; in fact, in the recent reign, had they not done so, there would never have been any fighting at all.

Every one, both friend and foe, expected that Edmund would await the onset in his entrenched camp.  Great, therefore, was the surprise, when he led his forces without the entrenchments, with the observation that the breasts of Englishmen were their best bulwarks.

He knew his forces, that they had confidence in him; and he could not have shown better his confidence in them, and his feeling that the time had now at length come to assume the offensive.

Canute was doubtless somewhat surprised, yet he was learning to know Edmund.

The English hero divided his army into three divisions:  The right wing, where he posted around his own person the chosen band whom he had trained during the last few years of retirement; the left wing, chiefly composed of the men of Wessex; the centre, the weakest and newest recruits, whom he posted there with as deep a design as led Hannibal to use the same strategy at Cannae.

The Danes advanced impetuously to the attack, led by Canute himself, somewhat similarly divided, and Edmund at once advanced his forces to meet them.  One hundred yards apart, both armies paused, and glared upon each other.  There was no flinching.  With teeth firmly set, lips compressed, and the whole body thrown into the attitude of a tiger about to spring, each warrior gazed upon the foe.