He rose and turned With sideway leer; and printing with vague step Irregular the shining sands, on strode Toward his cold home, alone; and saw by chance A little bird light-perched, that, being sick, Plucked from the fissured sea-cliff grains of sand; And, noting, said, “O bird, when beak of thine From base to crown hath gorged this huge sea-wall, Then shall that man of Creed and Rite make null The strong rock of my will!” Thus Milcho spake, Feigning the peace not his. Next day it chanced Women he heard in converse. Thus the first: “If true the news, good speed for him, my boy! Poor slaves by Milcho scourged on earth shall wear In heaven a monarch’s crown! Good speed for her His little sister, not reserved like us To bend beneath these loads.” To whom her mate: “Doubt not the Prophet’s tidings! Not in vain The Power Unknown hath shaped us! Come He must, Or send, and help His people on their way. Good is He, or He ne’er had made these babes!” They passed, and Milcho said, “Through hate of me All men believe!” And straightway Milcho’s face Grew bleaker than that crab-tree stem forlorn That hid him, wanner than that sea-sand wet That whitened round his foot down-pressed. Time passed. One morn in bitter mockery Milcho mused: “What better laughter than when thief from thief Pilfers the pilfered goods? Our Druid thief Two thousand years hath milked and shorn this land; Now comes the thief outlandish that with him Would share milk-pail and fleece! O Bacrach old, To hear thee shout ‘Impostor!’” Straight he went To Bacrach’s cell hid in a skirt wind-shav’n Of low-grown wood, and met, departing thence, Three sailors sea-tanned from a ship late-beached. Within a corner huddled, on the floor, The Druid sat, cowering, and cold, and mazed: Sudden he rose, and cried, by conquering joy Clothed as with youth restored: “The God Unknown, That God who made the earth, hath walked the earth! This hour His Prophet treads the isle! Three men Have seen him; and their speech is true. To them That Prophet spake: ‘Four hundred years ago, Sinless God’s Son on earth for sinners died: Black grew the world, and graves gave up their dead.’ Thus spake the Seer. Four hundred years ago! Mark well the time! Of Ulster’s Druid race What man but yearly, those four hundred years, Trembled that tale recounting which with this Tallies as footprint with the foot of man? Four hundred years ago—that self-same day— Connor, the son of Nessa, Ulster’s King, Sat throned, and judged his people. As he sat, Under clear skies, behold, o’er all the earth Swept a great shadow from the windless east; And darkness hung upon the air three hours; Dead fell the birds, and beasts astonied fled.