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