This brings us to a picturesque scene, deftly painted by the old
chroniclers. Ely had its abbey, a counterpart of that of Peterborough.
Thurston, the abbot, was English-born, as were the monks under his
pastoral charge; and long the cowled inmates of the abbey and the armed
patriots of the Camp of Refuge dwelt in sweet accord. In the refectory
of the abbey monks and warriors sat side by side at table, their
converse at meals being doubtless divided between affairs spiritual and
affairs temporal, while from walls and roof hung the arms of the
warriors, harmoniously mingled with the emblems of the church. It was a
picture of the marriage of church and state well worthy of reproduction
on canvas.

Yet King William knew how to deal with Abbot Thurston. Lands belonging
to the monastery lay beyond the fens, and on these the king laid the
rough hand of royal right, as an earnest of what would happen when the
monastery itself should fall into his hands. A flutter of terror shook
the hearts of the abbot and his family of monks. To them it seemed that
the skies were about to fall, and that they would be wise to stand from
under.

While the monks of Ely were revolving this threat of disaster in their
souls, the tide of assault and defence rolled on. William's causeway
pushed its slow length forward through the fens. Hereward assailed it
with fire and sword, and harried the king's lands outside by sudden
raids. It is said that, like King Alfred before him, he more than once
visited the camp of the Normans in disguise, and spied out their ways
and means of warfare.

There is a story connected with this warlike enterprise so significant
of the times that it must be told. Whether or not William believed