At the same time another shout rose, “Down with the aliens!” and there was a general rush towards St. 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 St. 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 St. 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 St. 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 it is with the old man and little maid?” “There’s a sort in our court that are ready for aught,” said Ambrose.