“It was from a monastery,” said Siegbert, “where I was placed, because the abbot had taken a fancy to my voice and face. ‘He shall be another Cynewulf,’ he said, and so ’suaded my grandfather to give me to them. I, too, maiden, was the son of a gleeman who was the son of a gleeman, and song was my heritage even as it is thine. The good abbot taught me to read and to know of other things, that I might not be like the animal, who wots of naught but grass and drink. One morning—well do I remember the day—a bode ran breathlessly to the monastery to tell us that the Northmen were advancing upon us. The battle of Kesteven had been fought, and victory sat upon the helmet of the Dane. Terror and consternation reigned in the monastery, for as the destroyer had done to other convents, so would he do to ours. No mercy would be shown to priest or monk. The abbot alone was calm. Calling all together, he sent into the fens the younger brothers, who could support life, together with the sacred relics of the monastery—the most holy body of St. Guthlac, the jewels, documents, and precious gifts presented to the abbey. The aged and infirm monks with the young children, in fact all those whom he considered unable to endure the hardships of the fens, did he retain with him, hoping that the savage breasts of the Danes might be filled with pity for so much helplessness. But alack! even as, robed in the vestments, we stood at mass, the Danes burst in upon us. Never, maiden, shall I forget that sight! Often now, in the dark watches of the night, doth it come before my vision—the good abbot, stricken down at the very altar; the priests and monks, with their heads cloven into by the terrible battle-ax of the Danes. By the sub-prior did I stand. The pagans swept to us, and one, with a swift blow of his ax, laid the holy father dead at my feet. Wotting not what I did, I taunted him scornfully because he slew me not, but stood regarding me with weapon uplifted. I bade him put me to death by the side of the holy father, for I loved him; but the Dane seized me, stripped me of my robe, and then threw upon me a Danish tunic. Then bearing me with him, he strode from the edifice, crying that I was too fair to be slain. So,” and Siegbert’s lip curled in scorn, “where holiness and goodness availed not, mere beauty of feature saved my life. The others who were not slain outright were seized and tortured to tell where the treasures of the monastery were held. Incensed at being thwarted of their gains, the Danes slew all the remainder save only myself. I, too, would have been slain but that Sidroc the younger, who had saved me, bade me keep from the way of Hubba and the other jarls, and keep only with his own retainers. Then they passed on to Medeshamstede, to continue the work of destruction. The army then moved toward Huntingdon.