Percy and my Tiadatha Took their stand at a street corner, Started running things in earnest, Cleared the houses of the people, Helped them get what things they could out, Made them leave the things they couldn’t. Chased and biffed the wandering looters, Kept the crowd back and the road clear, Got the women and the children On the waiting motor lorries, Packed them off to refugee camps; And their hardest job of all was Parting one old Turkish lady From the frowsty feather mattress That they couldn’t load up with her On the overflowing lorry. When the fire had reached their corner They would move on to the next one, Like a pair of organ grinders Made to move on by a footman, Giving ground, but giving slowly, Fighting out a rearguard action. And at every other corner Of the doomed and burning city Slaved the likes of Tiadatha, Officers and private soldiers, Fighting fire instead of Bulgars. Many parts they played that evening, Fireman, policeman, knight and coolie, Till their eyes were red and burning, Choc-a-bloc with grit and cinders, Till their clothes were scorched and blackened, Till their heads and feet and backs ached. And that night my Tiadatha Saw some sights not good to look on. Many thousand hearts were broken, Many thousand people homeless. As the night wore on a damsel, Tearful and quite unattractive, Came beseeching Tiadatha, Begged and prayed him come and help her, Help her save some cherished treasures. Up some burning stairs she led them (Having roped in Percy also), Pointed to a clock and mirror, Hideous both and very heavy. Quick as lightning Tiadatha Pounced upon the gilt-framed mirror (Since it looked a little lighter), Left the massive clock for Percy; Down the stairs they crashed together, In their arms these precious treasures Of this unattractive damsel. Out into the street they lugged them, Put them down upon the pavement, But she begged and prayed them follow Whither she had left her mother And the rest of her belongings. So they left their job and followed, Followed like Quixotic idiots, Staggered with the clock and mirror, Which became extremely heavy; Through the burning streets they tottered, Past the weeping homeless outcasts, With the things upon their shoulders; Humped them till their backs were breaking, Till at last their souls revolted. “Finish, Mademoiselle,” said Percy, Firm, though quite polite about it, “Not another yard,” said Percy, “Not a step,” said Tiadatha. “_Pas loin d’ici_,” sobbed the maiden, Wept the unattractive damsel, “Only just a little farther, Just a very little farther.” On they went like two knight-errants Out to serve their lovely lady, Till they reached the bit of garden