"Good heaven!" she cried, in a transport of alarm. "Master Holyday will be killed! Father, help him!"
"Murder, murder!" shouted the goldsmith. "Constables! go for constables, some of ye!"
Even at that word, the captain's rapier point came through a loose part of Master Holyday's doublet, and the scholar, for an instant thinking himself touched, stumbled back in terror.
Millicent screamed. "Constables?" cried she; "a man might be killed ten times ere they came. Prentices! Clubs! clubs!"
With an answering shout, her father's flat-capped lads rushed out from where they had been looking across the cases. With their bludgeon-like weapons in hand, they took up the cry, "Clubs! clubs!" and made for the fighters, intent upon getting within striking distance of Ravenshaw.
The captain turned to keep them off. Holyday, quite winded, staggered back to the shop entrance. Millicent caught him by the sleeve, and drew him into the rear apartment, scarce observed in the fresh interest that matters had taken in the street. He put away his sword, panting and trembling. She led him into the passage, and then to the Friday Street door, bidding him make good his flight, and saying she would be at the gate at nightfall. She then returned to the front of the shop.
As he ran down Friday Street, Holyday heard an increased tumult in Cheapside behind him; he knew that apprentices must be gathering from every side; Ravenshaw's position would be that of a stag surrounded by a multitude of threatening hounds. A thrown club might bring him down at any moment. The scholar, with a sudden catching at the throat, ran into the White Horse tavern, and, seizing a tapster by the arms, said hoarsely in his ear:
"The noise in Cheapside—the prentices—they will kill Ravenshaw—for God's sake, Tony!—the friend of all tapsters, he—but say not I summoned ye."
He dashed out and away, while Tony was tearing off his apron and bawling out the name of every drawer in the place.
Meanwhile, in the middle of Cheapside, in the space left open by the swelling crowd for its own safety, a strange spectacle was presented: one man with sword and dagger, menaced by an ever increasing mob of apprentices with their clubs. It was a bear baited by dogs, the shouts of the apprentices dinning the ears of the onlookers like the barking of mastiffs in the ring on the Bankside. When the first band of apprentices rushed forth, two stopped short as his sword-point darted to meet them, and the others ran around to attack him from behind. But with a swift turn he was threatening these, and they sprang away to save themselves. Ere they could recover, he was around again to face the renewed oncoming of the first two. But now through the surging crowd, forcing their way with shouts and prods, came apprentices from the neighbouring shops, in quick obedience to the cry of "Clubs." Ravenshaw was hemmed in on all quarters. By a swift rush in one direction, a swift turn in another, a swift side thrust of his rapier in a third, a swift slash of his dagger in a fourth, he contrived to make every side of him so dangerous that each menacing foe would fall back ere coming into good striking distance.