He felt the quiver of a national strenuousness which was already shaking loose the knots of the old binding-ropes of prejudice and cowardice.

It seemed to him that bone was coming to dry bone, and that sooner or later--very soon, it was likely--one would breathe on these, and they would live.

That contest should come out of such a renaissance was inevitable.

But what contest?
Against whom was the new Ireland to fight, and who was truly on her side?
Here was the puzzle, insoluble but insistent.

It would not let him rest, recurring to his mind with each fresh recollection of his father's prophecy.
It was while he was wearying himself with this perplexity that he got a letter from Augusta Goold.