They say, the chroniclers who have written the history of that low-lying,
wind-swept coast, that years ago the foam fringe of the ocean lay further
to the east; so that where now the North Sea creeps among the treacherous
sand-reefs, it was once dry land. In those days, between the Abbey and
the sea, there stood a town of seven towers and four rich churches,
surrounded by a wall of twelve stones' thickness, making it, as men
reckoned then, a place of strength and much import; and the monks,
glancing their eyes downward from the Abbey garden on the hill, saw
beneath their feet its narrow streets, gay with the ever passing of rich
merchandise, saw its many wharves and water-ways, ever noisy with the
babel of strange tongues, saw its many painted masts, wagging their grave
heads above the dormer roofs and quaintly-carved oak gables.
Thus the town prospered till there came a night when it did evil in the
sight of God and man. Those were troublous times to Saxon dwellers by
the sea, for the Danish water-rats swarmed round each river mouth,
scenting treasure from afar; and by none was the white flash of their
sharp, strong teeth more often seen than by the men of Eastern Anglia,
and by none in Eastern Anglia more often than by the watchers on the
walls of the town of seven towers that once stood upon the dry land, but
which now lies twenty fathom deep below the waters. Many a bloody fight
raged now without and now within its wall of twelve stones' thickness.
Many a groan of dying man, many a shriek of murdered woman, many a wail
of mangled child, knocked at the Abbey door upon its way to Heaven,
calling the trembling-monks from their beds, to pray for the souls that
were passing by.
But at length peace came to the long-troubled land: Dane and Saxon
agreeing to dwell in friendship side by side, East Anglia being wide, and
there being room for both. And all men rejoiced greatly, for all were
weary of a strife in which little had been gained on either side beyond
hard blows, and their thoughts were of the ingle-nook. So the
long-bearded Danes, their thirsty axes harmless on their backs, passed to
and fro in straggling bands, seeking where undisturbed and undisturbing
they might build their homes; and thus it came about that Haafager and
his company, as the sun was going down, drew near to the town of seven
towers, that in those days stood on dry land between the Abbey and the
sea.
And the men of the town, seeing the Danes, opened wide their gates
saying:--
"We have fought, but now there is peace. Enter, and make merry with us,
and to-morrow go your way."