“The devil a one of me can see anything or any one, except a fox scampering through the boreen beyond, with a water hen in his mouth,” said Micus.
“Look, look,” said Padna, as he pointed with the stem of his pipe. “There they come: all the people who dwelt on this holy island since God made the world, and man made mistakes. I can see them all. There’s Brian Boru’s army, with Brian himself out in front, and he holding the golden crucifix the same as he carried it to battle when he drove the Danes from our shores.”
“I don’t see him at all,” said Micus.
“Look, there he is mounted on the black charger that trampled and crushed to death the valorous invaders who were foolish enough to come in his way. Look, how he prances and shakes his mane and sniffs the air. He was the King of all the black horses, and when he was shot through the heart by an arrow, his spirit flew away to the world beyond the fleecy clouds, but, as it could never rest, it came back to earth again, and now dwells in all the black horses of the world. And they, each and every one, are pledged to avenge the death of Brian and his war steed. So if ever you see a black horse on a lonely road or crowded street, with a fiery look in his eye, keep out of his way unless you love Granuaile, or he will trample you with his iron hoofs until you are dead.”
“I can see neither horses nor men,” persisted Micus.
“They are all passing into the valley now, and I can see the soldiers keeping step to the music.”
“What are they playing?”
“What would they be playing, but Brian Boru’s march, of course.”
“I haven’t heard a sound.”
“Don’t you hear the war pipes and the stamp of the soldiers’ feet?”