Knollys rode forward.
“Sir, by the splendour of God, let our trumpets sound, and let us trample these wretches into the grass.”
“No, by God; for they have trusted me. They shall go unharmed. Send Walworth to me. He shall speak to them.”
The mob hung there, wavering, and making a discordant and querulous clamour. They were without leaders, and cowed and dumbfounded by Knollys’ spears.
Walworth came riding up, and Fulk spoke with him.
“Walworth, good friend, down on your knees. This shall be remembered.”
He knighted him, smiling as he bent to touch him with his sword.
“My hand is as good as another’s. Now, Sir Mayor, ride to those men yonder, demand my banners, say that I am merciful, that I have held back those who would have slaughtered them. Bid them depart—each man to his own home.”
Walworth rode forward and spoke to them, and then Fulk and his fellows beheld a wonderful, strange sight. It was as though the bank of a pool had given way, and the brown wash of that multitude of heads and faces broke and flowed away on every side. They surrendered the banners and fled, swarming over the fields in ragged masses, some flying towards the city, others into the open country. This revolt was repulsed, broken, scattered.
Fulk sat on his horse and watched them, and a strange light came into his eyes. He heard Knollys speaking.