"Bessie," he commanded, "lock the door behind us when we go out in the hall. When I sing, you scream for help at the top of your voice. Then, whatever I say swear to like a darlin'. Come, Mr. Dyke."
Moore grabbed the old gentleman by the arm and hurried him out in the hall as the first of Wales' pursuers set foot on the flight of stairs leading to the attic.
"The Harp that once thro' Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,
As if that soul--"
A woman's scream rang through the house.
"Help! Help! Tom! Help!"
"Bang!" went the locked door, kicked in by Moore, who rushed into the room with a yell, followed by Mr. Dyke.
"Out of the way, darlin'," he whispered to Bessie. "I 've got to give myself an awful flaking."
Immediately the poet began a struggle all over the room with an imaginary adversary.
"You would, would you?" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Then take that, you raparee! And that, and that. Help! Mr. Dyke! My, but he is strong."
He seized the table and upset it, then danced around the room like one possessed, dealing terrific blows to the air. He clutched the contents of the cupboard and sent the china crashing in fragments on the floor. The chairs he beat up and down and back and forth against the walls. For all the world it sounded as though a mad bull were rushing around the room dealing destruction on every side. Then he put his fist through two panes of glass and paused in his performance, standing by the window with heaving chest as the mob led by Sweeny rushed into the attic.