When the party of Anlaf arrived at the northern gate, crossing the summit of the ascent on that side, they found it open and almost unguarded, so slight was the danger from the dispirited English--now too accustomed to the idea of a foe in the heart of the land. Entering, they beheld a strange scene: huts rudely constructed of the branches of trees, intermingled sparingly with tents, were disposed at regular intervals. In the centre, where the main streets crossed, was the royal tent, with the raven banner floating therefrom; and there, at that moment, was the savage tyrant Sweyn in person. Sweyn was the son of Harold Bluetooth, who reigned in Denmark fifty years, from A.D. 935-985, and who in his old age became a Christian and strove to convert his subjects. But the ferocious warriors 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?" "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.