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 separated.

Some few, not quite ignorant of the Saxon tongue, doffed their mail, and crept through forest and fell towards the sea-shore; others retained steed and arms, but shunned equally the high roads.

The two prelates were among the last; they gained, in safety, Ness, in Essex, threw themselves into an open, crazy, fishing-boat, committed themselves to the waves, and, half drowned and half famished, drifted over the Channel to the French shores.