rebelled against him, and were headed by his unnatural son, Sweyn,
who, although baptized, renounced Christianity, and fought to restore
the bloodstained worship so congenial to the heart of a sea king.
Defeated in battle, the unhappy father fled for his life, and fled in
vain, for he was either murdered or died of his wounds.

Sweyn then became king, restored idolatry, and gratified to the full
the fell instincts of his savage followers. His great object was now
not merely to plunder, but to conquer England, and all his campaigns
were so directed as to reduce province after province. Sussex and Kent
were now wholly powerless; East Anglia was little better; Wessex
trembled, for every inlet was a path for the robbers, and the turn of
Mercia drew near.

Sweyn stood at the door of his tent, leaning upon his ponderous
battle-axe; around him were two or three warriors, whose grey hairs
had not softened the look of ferocity so plainly stamped upon their
faces.

The king was not in armour, but wore a kind of close-fitting tunic,
descending to the knees, and leggings leaving the legs bare above the
knees. A rich mantle was thrown over the tunic, for it was cold.

By his side, similarly dressed, stood his son, the hopeful Canute, the
future King of England, then only in his twelfth year, but already
showing himself a true cub of the old tiger in fierceness and valour,
yet not devoid of nobler and gentler virtues, as he afterwards showed.

"Welcome, Anlaf," cried Sweyn, as he saw the party arrive; "welcome,
hast thou enjoyed thy holiday in Mercia?"