ble, and darting looks of
the bitterest scorn at their feeble benefactor. Then, as with one
accord, these last rushed along the corridor, gained the hall where their
countrymen yet assembled, and exclaimed, "A toute bride! Franc
etrier!--All is lost but life!--God for the first man,--knife and cord
for the last!"

Then, as the cry of fire, or as the first crash of an earthquake,
dissolves all union, and reduces all emotion into one thought of
self-saving, the whole conclave, crowding pell-mell on each other,
bustled, jostled, clamoured to the door--happy he who could find horse,
palfrey,--even monk's mule! This way, that way, fled those lordly
Normans, those martial abbots, those mitred bishops--some singly, some in
pairs; some by tens, and some by scores; but all prudently shunning
association with those chiefs whom they had most courted the day before,
and who, they now knew, would be the main mark for revenge; save only
two, who yet, from that awe of the spiritual power which characterised
the Norman, who was already half monk, half soldier (Crusader and Templar
before Crusades were yet preached, or the Templars yet dreamed of),--even
in that hour of selfish panic rallied round them the prowest chivalry of
their countrymen, viz., the Bishop of London and the Archbishop of
Canterbury. Both these dignitaries, armed cap-a-pie, and spear in hand,
headed the flight; and good service that day, both as guide and champion,
did Mallet de Graville. He led them in a circuit behind both armies, but
being intercepted by a new body, coming from the pastures of
Hertfordshire to the help of Godwin, he was compelled to take the bold
and desperate resort of entering the city gates. These were wide open;
whether to admit the Saxon Earls, or vomit forth their allies, the
Londoners. Through these, up the narrow streets, riding three abreast,
dashed the slaughtering fugitives; worthy in flight of their national
renown, they trampled down every obstacle. Bodies of men drew up against
them at every angle, with the Saxon cry of "Out--Out!" "Down with the
outland men!" Through each, spear pierced, and sword clove, the way. Red
with gore was the spear of the prelate of London; broken to the hilt was
the sword militant in the terrible hand of the Archbishop of Canterbury.
So on thy rode, so on they slaughtered--gained the Eastern Gate, and
passed with but two of their number lost.

The fields once gained, for better precaution they sep