A shout rose suddenly, and went from mouth to mouth. Young Simon came out of the darkness with torches, riding his white horse, and a mob of half-armed men with him. “Sire, treachery, the gates at the bridge are locked.” Such in truth was the case, for the King had planned the trick, and those of the wealthier citizens who were in his pay had locked the gates and thrown the keys into the river. Simon saw his imminent hazard, but his sword was out to hearten his men. “Break down the gates.” And then, standing in his stirrups: “Sirs,” said he, “let the King’s men come to us. They will find it hot here, despite the rain.” A number of archers came running back out of the night, shouting that masses of men were pouring along the dark streets at their heels. A blare of trumpets tore the darkness. The narrow main street began to roar with the rush of mounted men. The Earl’s trumpets gave tongue in answer. In an instant a black torrent poured forward as though a dam had broken, and fell with fury upon the flood that lapped from wall to wall. A man has no time to remember what happens in such a fight when he is caught by a whirlwind of human fury, and driven this way and that. Horses reared, fell, and crushed their riders. The narrow street rang like a hundred smithies. Blows were given and taken in the darkness, men grappled together in the saddle, for there was no room often for the swing of a sword. Aymery found himself and his horse driven against the wall, and pinned there by the mass that filled the street. He struck out, with cries of “Montfort, Montfort,” and was struck at in turn by those who bawled for the King. Aymery found himself being forced along the wall his horse, scared and maddened, backing along the street. The tide had turned in the King’s favour. The Earl’s men were being driven by sheer weight of numbers. The night had a black look for Earl Simon and his party. Of what followed Aymery could have given no clear account, all that he knew was that he went on striking at those who struck at him, and that he remembered wondering that he had not been wounded or beaten out of the saddle. His brain seemed to become dulled by the din and clangour, and by the tumult in the darkness and the rain. A roar of voices rose suddenly, flowing from somewhere out of the night. “Montfort, Montfort!” A great rallying cry came up like the sound of the sea, for the Londoners had broken the gates, and were pouring over the bridge into Southwark to rescue the Earl.