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?”

“Bravely, my king, the ravens have tasted flesh.”

“No need to tell me that; thy revenge, then, is accomplished.  Hast thou found thy son?”

“He is with me, my lord, but their saints must have warned the English of our approach.  We burnt the place but the people were not in it.  Their cries would have been music in our ears.”

“Perhaps St. Brice told them you were coming; the English have a veneration for him,” said Sweyn, bitterly.

They both laughed a bitter laugh, for both had suffered by the massacre in the persons of kinsfolks.

“But is this young springal thy long-lost son? he is like thee, even as a tame falcon is like, and yet unlike, the free wild bird.”

“He is my son;” and Anlaf introduced Alfgar.

The youth made his salutations, not ungracefully, yet with an air of reserve which the king noticed.

“I thought St. Brice had got him long ago, and feared thou wert on a wild-goose chase.”

“It is a long tale to tell now, my liege.”

“Have they Christianised him?” said the king, with a sly look.

“He will soon lose that,” replied Anlaf.

“Yes,” said the king; “we know a way of curing the folly,” when, even as he spoke, a spasm, as of mental agony, passed over him, and he shook like an aspen, but it was gone in a minute.

Was it the fate of his father which was thus avenged?

Every one looked aside and pretended not to notice the fact, and Anlaf, having made his homage, retired, leading Alfgar.

“You see, my son,” commenced the old warrior, as he led his recovered boy to his own quarters, “how useless it would be for you to struggle against the tide, such a tide as no swimmer could breast.”