“Faugh-a-balla—clear the way!” sprang the shrill war-cry of a thousand of the Good People.
At the first sound of the King’s worruds there rose about Darby the mighty flurrying an’ rushing of wings in the darkness, as if thraymendous birds were rising sudden an’ flying away, an’ the air emptied itself of a smothering heaviness.
So fast came the King’s fairy army that the great cheer was still aychoing among the threes when the goold crown of Brian Connors sparkled up from beside the knowledgeable man’s knees. At that the parsecuted man, sobbin’ with joy, knelt down in the muddy road to shake hands with his friend, the masther of the Good People.
Brian Connors was not alone, for there crowded about Darby, sympathisin’ with him, little Phelim Beg, an’ Nial the fiddler, an’ Shaun Rhue the smith, an’ Phadrig Oge. Also every instant, flitthering out of the sky into the road, came be the score green-cloaked and red-hooded men, follying the King an’ ready for throuble.
“If ever a man needed a dhrop of good whusky, you’re the hayro, an’ this is the time an’ place for it,” says the King, handin’ up a silver-topped noggin.
