His face turned pale as
he saw a mob of armed townsmen rushing down the street towards it; a
furious scuffle with the French guards; and then, through the gateway, the
open champaign beyond, and a gleaming wave of axes, helms, and spears,
pouring in, and up the street.
"The traitors!" he almost shrieked, as he turned and ran down the ladder
to tell Malet below.
Malet was firm, but pale as Aldred.
"We must fight to the last," said he, as he hurried down, commanding his
men to sally at once _en masse_ and clear the city.
The mistake was fatal. The French were entangled in the narrow streets.
The houses, shut to them, were opened to the English and Danes; and,
overwhelmed from above, as well as in front, the greater part of the
Norman garrison perished in the first fight. The remnant were shut up in
the Castle. The Danes and English seized the houses round, and shot from
the windows at every loophole and embrasure where a Norman showed himself.
"Shoot fire upon the houses!" said Malet.
"You will not burn York? O God! is it come to this?"
"And why not York town, or York minster, or Rome itself, with the Pope
inside it, rather than yield to barbarians?"
Archbishop Aldred went into his room, and lay down on his bed. Outside was
the roar of the battle; and soon, louder and louder, the roar of flame.
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