The Birchlegs needed no further encouragement. Poorly armed though they were, they stormed down over the hill-sides into the city. One fellow who was rushing along with a wooden club in his hand was asked what he had done with his weapons. "They are down in the town," he answered; "as yet, the earl's men have got them." The alarm was now given, and bewildered and heavy with sleep, the earl's warriors tumbled out into the streets. King Magnus was also present, but the confusion was so great that he had much difficulty in rallying his followers. Many of the chieftains advised Erling to flee on board his ships and make his escape. "I don't deny," he answered, "that that might seem to be the best; but I can't endure the thought that that devil of a priest, Sverre, should put himself in my son's place." He therefore retired outside the city to Kalvskindet and there awaited the attack; but though his force was far greater than Sverre's, he could not maintain himself against the furious onslaught of the Birchlegs. After a brief defence the earl was slain, and the flight became general. King Magnus, when he saw his father's bloody face upturned against the sky, paused in his flight, stooped down and kissed him. "We shall meet again, father mine, in the day of joy," he said, and hastened reluctantly away. Great was the rejoicing among the Birchlegs when it became known, that Earl Erling was dead. Sverre, who rarely missed a chance to make a speech, and who, moreover, was duly qualified for the office of conducting obsequies, made a funeral oration over his fallen foe. He drew the moral of the earl's life, and said some things which, no doubt, were true. But as he went on he gave more and more play to his caustic irony, and was, perhaps, less generous than he could have afforded to be in his judgment of the dead chieftain.