Meantime full many a rumour vague had vexed Milcho much musing. He had dealings large And distant. Died a chief? He sent and bought The widow’s all; or sold on foodless shores For usury the leanest of his kine. Meantime, his dark ships and the populous quays With news still murmured. First from Imber Dea Came whispers how a sage had landed late, And how when Nathi fain had barred his way, Nathi that spurned Palladius from the land, That sage with levelled eyes, and kingly front Had from his presence driven him with a ban Cur-like and craven; how on bended knee Sinell believed, the royal man well-loved Descending from the judgment-seat with joy: And how when fishers spurned his brethren’s quest For needful food, that sage had raised his rod, And all the silver harvest of blue streams Lay black in nets and sand. His wrinkled brow Wrinkling yet more, thus Milcho answer made: “Deceived are those that will to be deceived: This knave has heard of gold in river-beds, And comes a deft sand-groper; let him come! He’ll toil ten years ere gold enough he finds To make a crooked torque.” From Tara next The news: “Laeghaire, the King, sits close in cloud Of sullen thought, or storms from court to court, Because the chiefest of the Druid race Locru, and Luchat prophesied long since That one day from the sea a Priest would come With Doctrine and a Rite, and dash to earth Idols, and hurl great monarchs from their thrones; And lo! At Imber Boindi late there stept A priest from roaring waves with Creed and Rite, And men before him bow.” Then Milcho spake: “Not flesh enough from thy strong bones, Laeghaire, These Druids, ravens of the woods, have plucked, But they must pluck thine eyes! Ah priestly race, I loathe ye! ’Twixt the people and their King Ever ye rub a sore!” Last came a voice: “This day in Eire thy saying is fulfilled, Conn of the ‘Hundred Battles,’ from thy throne Leaping long since, and crying, ‘O’er the sea The Prophet cometh, princes in his train, Bearing for regal sceptres bended staffs, Which from the land’s high places, cliff and peak, Shall drag the fair flowers down!’” Scoffing he heard: “Conn of the ‘Hundred Battles!’ Had he sent His hundred thousand kernes to yonder steep And rolled its boulders down, and built a mole To fence my laden ships from spring-tide surge, Far kinglier pattern had he shown, and given More solace to the land.”