Breathless, covered with blood, brandishing the plundered weapons, and proclaiming the insult and its vengeance, the insurgents rushed toward the tranquil city, “Death to the French!” they shouted, and as many as they found were put to the sword.  The example, the words, the contagion of passion, in an instant aroused the whole people.  In the heat of the tumult Roger Mastrangelo, a nobleman, was chosen—­or constituted himself—­their leader.  The multitude continued to increase; dividing into troops they scoured the streets, burst open doors, searched every nook, every hiding-place, and shouting “Death to the French!” smote them and slew them, while those too distant to strike added to the tumult by their applause.  On the outbreak of this sudden uproar the Justiciary had taken refuge in his strong palace; the next moment it was surrounded by an enraged multitude crying aloud for his death; they demolished the defences and rushed furiously in, but the Justiciary escaped them.  Favored by the confusion and the closing darkness, he succeeded, though wounded in the face, in mounting his horse unobserved, with only two attendants, and fled with all speed.  Meanwhile the slaughter continued with increased ferocity; even the darkness of night failed to arrest it, and it was resumed the next day more furiously than ever.  Nor did it finally cease because the thirst for vengeance was slaked, but because victims were wanting to appease it.  Two thousand French perished in this first outbreak.  Even Christian burial was denied them, but pits were afterward dug to receive their despised remains, and tradition still points out a column surmounted by an iron cross, raised by compassionate piety on one of these spots, probably long after the perpetration of the deed of vengeance.

Tradition, moreover, relates that the sound of a word, like the Shibboleth of the Hebrews, was the cruel test by which the French were distinguished in the massacre; and that, if there were found a suspicious or unknown person, he was compelled, with a sword to his throat, to pronounce the word ciciri, and the slightest foreign accent was the signal for his death.  Forgetful of their own character, and as if stricken by fate, the gallant warriors of France neither fled nor united nor defended themselves.  They unsheathed their swords and presented them to their assailants, imploring, as if in emulation of each other, to be the first to die.  Of one common soldier it is recorded that, having concealed himself behind a wainscot, and being dislodged at the sword’s point, he resolved not to die unavenged, and, springing forth with a wild cry upon the ranks of his enemies, slew three of them before he himself perished.  The insurgents broke into the convents of the Minorites and Preaching Friars, and slaughtered all the monks whom they recognized as French.  Even the altars afforded no protection; tears and prayers were alike unheeded; neither old men, women, nor infants were