When from the wattle-woven house
Nial the Mighty softly stepped,
And peered beneath the ashtree boughs
To where he thought the white-robe slept,

He heard the monk’s words rise in prayer. 
He heard a hymn’s ascending breath—­
“Christ, Son of God, to Thee I fare
This night upon the wings of death.”

Nial the Mighty crossed the space,
He waited till the monk had ceased;
Then, leaning o’er the foam-white face,
He stared upon the dauntless priest.

“Speak low,” he said, “and tell me this: 
Who is the king you hold so great?—­
Your eyes are dauntless flames of bliss
Though Modred taunts you with his hate:—­

“This god or king, is He more strong
Than Modred is?  And does He sleep
That thus your death-in-life is long,
And bonds your aching body keep?”

The monk’s eyes stared in Nial’s eyes: 
“Young giant with a child’s white heart,
I see a cross take shape and rise,
And thou upon it nailed art!”

Nial looked back:  no cross he saw
Looming from out the dreadful night: 
Yet all his soul was filled with awe,
A thundercloud with heart of light.

“Tell me thy name,” he said, “and why
Thou waitest thus the druid knife,
And carest not to live or die? 
Monk, hast thou little care of life?”

“Great care of that I have,” he said,
And looked at Nial with eyes of fire: 
“My life begins when I am dead,
There only is my heart’s desire.”

Nial the Mighty sighed.  “Thy words
Are as the idle froth of foam,
Or clashing of triumphant swords
When Modred brings the foray home.

“My name is Nial:  Nial the Strong: 
A lad in years, but as you see
More great than heroes of old song
Or any lordly men that be.

“To Modred have I come from far,
O’er many a hill and strath and stream. 
To be a mighty sword in war,
And this because I dreamed a dream: 

“My dream was that my strength so great
Should serve the greatest king there is: 
Modred the Pict thus all men rate,
And so I sought this far-off Liss.

“But if there be a greater yet,
A king or god whom he doth fear,
My service he shall no more get,
My strength shall rust no longer here.”

The monk’s face gladdened.  “Go, now, go;
To Modred go:  he sitteth dumb,
And broods on what he fain would know: 
And say, ‘O King, the Cross is come!’

“Then shall the king arise in wrath,
And bid you go from out his sight,
For if he meet you on his path
He’ll leave you stark and still and white.

“Thus shall he show, great king and all,
He fears the glorious Cross of Christ,
And dreads to hear slain voices call
For vengeance on the sacrificed.

“But, Nial, come not here again: 
Long before dawn my soul shall be
Beyond the reach of any pain
That Modred dreams to prove on me.