“Light the lanterns,” shouted Bolle again, “for it will be dark in yonder,” and a man who followed with a torch obeyed him.
Then they rushed across the courtyard to the door of the refectory, which stood open. Here in the wide, high-roofed hall they met the mass of Maldon’s people pouring back from the faggoted breach, where they had been gathered, expecting attack, some of them also bearing lanterns. For a moment the two parties stood staring at each other; then followed a wild and savage scene. With shouts and oaths and battle-cries they fought furiously. The massive, oaken tables were overthrown, by the red flicker of the pole-borne lanterns men grappled and fell and slew each other upon the floor. A priest struck down a yeoman with a brazen crucifix, and next moment himself was brained with its broken shaft.
“For God and Grace!” shouted some; “For the King and Harflete!” answered others.
“Keep line! Keep line!” roared Bolle, “and sweep them out.”
The lanterns were dashed down and extinguished till but one remained, a red and wavering star. Hoarse voices shouted for light, for none knew friend from foe. It came; some one had fired the tapestries and the blaze ran up them to the roof. Then fearing lest they should be roasted, the Abbot’s folk gave way and fled to the farther door, followed by their foes. Here it was that most of them fell, for they jammed in the doorway and were cut down there or on the stair beyond.
While Bolle still plied his axe fiercely, some one caught his arm and screamed into his ear—
“Let be! Let be! The wretch is sped.”
In his red wrath he turned to strike the speaker, and saw by the flare that it was Cicely.
“What do you here?” he cried. “Get gone.”
“Fool,” she answered in a low, fierce voice, “I seek my husband. Show me the path ere it be too late, you know it alone. Come, Jeffrey Stokes, a lantern, a lantern!”