But the torches again burnt bright, And brighter than before, When an aged man of majestic height Entered the temple door. Hushed was the revellers’ sound, They were struck as mute as the dead, And their hearts were appalled by the very sound Of his footstep’s measured tread. Nor word was spoken by one beholder, While he flung his white robe back on his shoulder And stretching his arm—as eath Unriveted Aodh’s bands, As if the gyves had been a wreath Of willows in his hands. All saw the stranger’s similitude To the ancient statue’s form; The Saint before his own image stood, And grasped Ulvfagre’s arm. Then uprose the Danes at last to deliver Their chief, and shouting with one accord, They drew the shaft from its rattling quiver, They lifted the spear and sword, And levelled their spears in rows. But down went axes and spears and bows, When the Saint with his crosier signed, The archer’s hand on the string was stopt, And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind, Their lifted weapons dropt. The Saint then gave a signal mute, And though Ulvfagre willed it not, He came and stood at the statue’s foot, Spell-riveted to the spot, Till hands invisible shook the wall, And the tottering image was dashed Down from its lofty pedestal. On Ulvfagre’s helm it crashed— Helmet, and skull, and flesh, and brain, It crushed as millstone crushes the grain. Then spoke the Saint, whilst all and each Of the Heathen trembled round, And the pauses amidst his speech Were as awful as the sound: “Go back, ye wolves, to your dens,” he cried, “And tell the nations abroad, How the fiercest of your herd has died That slaughtered the flock of God. Gather him bone by bone, And take with you o’er the flood The fragments of that avenging stone That drank his heathen blood. These are the spoils from Iona’s sack, The only spoils ye shall carry back; For the hand that uplifteth spear or sword Shall be withered by palsy’s shock, And I come in the name of the Lord To deliver a remnant of his flock.” A remnant was called together, A doleful remnant of the Gael, And the Saint in the ship that had brought him hither Took the mourners to Innisfail. Unscathed they left Iona’s strand, When the opal morn first flushed the sky, For the Norse dropt spear, and bow and brand, And looked on them silently; Safe from their hiding places came Orphans and mothers, child and dame: But alas! when the search for Reullura spread, No answering voice was given, For the sea had gone o’er her lovely head, And her spirit was in Heaven. [91] Reullura, in Gaelic, signifies “beautiful star.”