ere
was a general rush towards Saint Martin's gate, in which direction many
lived. There was, however, a pause here, for Sir Thomas More, Recorder
of London, stood in the way before Saint Martin's gate, and with his
full sweet voice began calling out and entreating the lads to go home,
before any heads were broken more than could be mended again. He was
always a favourite, and his good humour seemed to be making some
impression, when, either from the determination of the more evil-
disposed, or because the inhabitants of Saint Martin's Lane were
beginning to pour down hot water, stones, and brickbats on the dense
mass of heads below them, a fresh access of fury seized upon the mob.
Yells of, "Down with the strangers!" echoed through the narrow streets,
drowning Sir Thomas's voice. A lawyer who stood with him was knocked
down and much hurt, the doors were battered down, and the household
stuff thrown from the windows. Here, Ambrose, who had hitherto been
pushed helplessly about, and knocked hither and thither, was driven up
against Giles, and, to avoid falling and being trampled down, clutched
hold of him breathless and panting.

"Thou here!" exclaimed Giles. "Who would have thought of sober Ambrose
in the midst of the fray? See here, Stevie!"

"Poor old Ambrose!" cried Stephen, "keep close to us! We'll see no harm
comes to thee. 'Tis hot work, eh?"

"Oh, Stephen! could I but get out of the throng to warn my master and
Master Michael!"

Those words seemed to strike Giles Headley. He might have cared little
for the fate of the old printer, but as he heard the screams of the
women in the houses around, he exclaimed, "Ay! there's the old man and
the little maid! We will have her to the Dragon!"

"Or to mine aunt's," said Ambrose.

"Have with thee then," said Giles: "Take his other arm, Steve;" and
locking their arms together the three fought and forced their way from
among the plunderers in Saint Martin's with no worse mishap than a
shower of hot water, which did not hurt them much through their stout
woollen coats. They came at last to a place where they could breathe,
and stood still a moment to recover from the struggle, and vituperate
the hot water.

Then they heard fresh howls and yells in front as well as behind.

"They are at it everywhere," exclaimed Stephen. "I hear them somewhere
out by Cornhill."

"Ay, where the Frenchmen live that calender worsted," returned Giles.
"Come on; who knows how