This burly Englishman, with his long, flowing locks, his mighty thews and sinews, his undaunted heart, his craft and skill in warfare, needs no introduction. His name and fame are enshrined in every English heart, thanks to the splendid romance which Charles Kingsley has woven about his heroisms. Legend and tradition, song and story, have cast their spell about him, and none can read his thrilling adventures without a tribute of admiration and esteem. Wild and wayward he ever was, but mingled with the ferocity and craftiness of his nature was a childlike simplicity which endeared him to all. As a guerilla leader he was the keenest thorn in William’s side. “Were there but three men in England such as he,” said a chronicler, “William would never have won the land.” The old stories describe him as a self-willed, boisterous lad, who caused his mother many a heartache and his father many an embarrassment, until at length he was outlawed and driven across the seas, where his mighty deeds of daring won him great renown. He may have been present at Hastings, though the chroniclers are silent on this point; but soon after the battle he was in Flanders, and only returned home when he learnt that his ancestral lands at Bourne in Lincolnshire had been granted to one Taillebois, who was even then in possession of them. Taillebois, by his insolence and cruelty, had made himself bitterly hated, and the men of the Fens were only waiting for a leader to rise in rebellion and thrust him out. Hereward suddenly arrived amongst them, and, so the story goes, swept his home clean of Frenchmen with his single sword. Eagerly the Fen men flocked to him, and acclaimed him as their leader. Soon the terror of his name spread far and wide, and the wild Fenland became a camp of refuge for those who would not bow the neck to the Norman yoke. No part of England was better adapted for the purpose. It was a vast, low-lying wilderness of slow-moving rivers, spreading meres, and treacherous swamps, whose secret paths were known only to the natives. Here and there “islands” of firmer ground arose, and on these the towns and abbeys of Fenland were built. One of these “islands” was Ely, a matchless place of refuge, engirdled by waters and morasses. Here Hereward made his camp, and defied the Normans. Daily his forces grew, and daily he swooped down on his foes, appearing so suddenly and disappearing so magically into his reedy recesses that none could stay him or follow him. William soon perceived that he would never be master of England while the bold and watchful Hereward was at large. Hereward had allied himself with the Danes, who swarmed into Fenland, and having burnt the “golden borough” of Peterborough, retired across the North Sea laden with its wondrous treasures—the gold crucifixes, the jewelled vessels, the costly vestments—which were the pride and glory of the abbey. Now that Hereward had rid himself of his troublesome allies, William determined to strike his blow.