He was harassed by continual suspense and anxiety, not being able to gain any clear or certain intelligence about the condition and movements of either his friends or foes.

He was revolving continually vague and half-formed plans for resuming the command of his army and attempting to regain his kingdom, and wearying himself with fruitless attempts to devise means to accomplish these ends.

Whenever he engaged voluntarily in any occupation, it would always be something in harmony with these trains of thought and these plans.

He would repair and put in order implements of hunting, or any thing else which might be deemed to have some relation to war.

He would make bows and arrows in the chimney corner--lost, all the time, in melancholy reveries, or in wild and visionary schemes of future exploits.
One evening, while he was thus at work, the cow-herd's wife left, for a few moments, some cakes under his charge, which she was baking upon the great stone hearth, in preparation for their common supper.
Alfred, as might have been expected, let the cakes burn.