WELAND'S SWORD(1)
The children were at the Theatre, acting to Three Cows as much as theycould remember of _Midsummer Night's Dream_. Their father had made them asmall play out of the big Shakespeare one, and they had rehearsed it withhim and with their mother till they could say it by heart. They beganwhere Nick Bottom the weaver comes out of the bushes with a donkey's headon his shoulder, and finds Titania, Queen of the Fairies, asleep. Thenthey skipped to the part where Bottom asks three little fairies to scratchhis head and bring him honey, and they ended where he falls asleep inTitania's arms. Dan was Puck and Nick Bottom, as well as all threeFairies. He wore a pointy-eared cloth cap for Puck, and a paper donkey'shead out of a Christmas cracker--but it tore if you were not careful--forBottom. Una was Titania, with a wreath of columbines and a foxglove wand.
The Theatre lay in a meadow called the Long Slip. A little mill-stream,carrying water to a mill two or three fields away, bent round one cornerof it, and in the middle of the bend lay a large old fairy Ring ofdarkened grass, which was their stage. The mill-stream banks, overgrownwith willow, hazel, and guelder rose made convenient places to wait intill your turn came; and a grown-up who had seen it said that Shakespearehimself could not have imagined a more suitable setting for his play. Theywere not, of course, allowed to act on Midsummer Night itself, but theywent down after tea on Midsummer Eve, when the shadows were growing, andthey took their supper--hard-boiled eggs, Bath Oliver biscuits, and salt inan envelope--with them. Three Cows had been milked and were grazingsteadily with a tearing noise that one could hear all down the meadow; andthe noise of the mill at work sounded like bare feet running on hardground. A cuckoo sat on a gatepost singing his broken June tune,'cuckoo-cuk,' while a busy kingfisher crossed from the mill-stream to thebrook which ran on the other side of the meadow. Everything else was asort of thick, sleepy stillness smelling of meadow-sweet and dry grass.
Their play went beautifully. Dan remembered all his parts--Puck, Bottom,and the three Fairies--and Una never forgot a word of Titania--not even thedifficult piece where she tells the Fairies how to feed Bottom with'apricocks, ripe figs, and dewberries,' and all the lines end in 'ies.'They were both so pleased that they acted it three times over frombeginning to end before they sat down in the unthistly centre of the Ringto eat eggs and Bath Olivers. This was when they heard a whistle among thealders on the bank, and they jumped.
In the very spot where Dan had stood as Puck they now saw a small, brown, broad-shouldered, pointy-eared person with a snub nose, slanting blue eyes, and a grin that ran right across his freckled face.]
The bushes parted. In the very spot where Dan had stood as Puck they saw asmall, brown, broad-shouldered, pointy-eared person with a snub nose,slanting blue eyes, and a grin that ran right across his freckled face. Heshaded his forehead as though he were watching Quince, Snout, Bottom, andthe others rehearsing _Pyramus__ and Thisbe_, and, in a voice as deep asThree Cows asking to be milked, he began:
'What hempen homespuns have we swaggering here, So near the cradle of our fairy Queen?'
He stopped, hollowed one hand round his ear, and, with a wicked twinkle inhis eye, went on:
'What a play toward? I'll be auditor, An actor too, perhaps, if I see cause.'
The children looked and gasped. The small thing--he was no taller thanDan's shoulder--stepped quietly into the Ring.
'I'm rather out of practice,' said he; 'but that's the way my part oughtto be played.'
Still the children stared at him--from his dark blue cap, like a bigcolumbine flower, to his bare, hairy feet. At last he laughed.
'Please don't look like that. It isn't _my_ fault. What else could youexpect?' he said.
'We didn't expect any one,' Dan answered, slowly. 'This is our field.'
'Is it?' said their visitor, sitting down. 'Then what on Human Earth madeyou act _Midsummer Night's Dream_ three times over, _on_ Midsummer Eve,_in_ the middle of a Ring, and under--right _under_ one of my oldest hillsin Old England? Pook's Hill--Puck's Hill--Puck's Hill--Pook's Hill! It's asplain as the nose on my face.'
He pointed to the bare, fern-covered slope of Pook's Hill that runs upfrom the far side of the mill-stream to a dark wood. Beyond that wood theground rises and rises for five hundred feet, till at last you climb outon the bare top of Beacon Hill, to look over the Pevensey Levels and theChannel and half the naked South Downs.
'By Oak, Ash, and Thorn!' he cried, still laughing. 'If this had happeneda few hundred years ago you'd have had all the People of the Hills outlike bees in June!'
'We didn't know it was wrong,' said Dan.
'Wrong!' The little fellow shook with laughter. 'Indeed, it isn't wrong.You've done something that Kings and Knights and Scholars in old dayswould have given their crowns and spurs and books to find out. If Merlinhimself had helped you, you couldn't have managed better! You've brokenthe Hills--you've broken the Hills! It hasn't happened in a thousandyears.'
'We--we didn't mean to,' said Una.
'Of course you didn't! That's just why you did it. Unluckily the Hills areempty now, and all the People of the Hills are gone. I'm the only oneleft. I'm Puck, the oldest Old Thing in England, very much at your serviceif--if you care to have anything to do with me. If you don't, of courseyou've only to say so, and I'll go.'
He looked at the children and the children looked at him for quite half aminute. His eyes did not twinkle any more. They were very kind, and therewas the beginning of a good smile on his lips.
Una put out her hand. 'Don't go,' she said. 'We like you.'
'Have a Bath Oliver,' said Dan, and he passed over the squashy envelopewith the eggs.
'By Oak, Ash, and Thorn!' cried Puck, taking off his blue cap, 'I like youtoo. Sprinkle a little salt on the biscuit, Dan, and I'll eat it with you.That'll show you the sort of person I am. Some of us'--he went on, with hismouth full--'couldn't abide Salt, or Horseshoes over a door, orMountain-ash berries, or Running Water, or Cold Iron, or the sound ofChurch Bells. But I'm Puck!'
He brushed the crumbs carefully from his doublet and shook hands.
'We always said, Dan and I,' Una stammered, 'that if it ever happened we'dknow ex-actly what to do; but--but now it seems all different somehow.'
'She means meeting a fairy,' said Dan. '_I_ never believed in 'em--notafter I was six, anyhow.'
'I did,' said Una. 'At least, I sort of half believed till we learned"Farewell Rewards." Do you know "Farewell Rewards and Fairies"?'
'Do you mean this?' said Puck. He threw his big head back and began at thesecond line:--
'Good housewives now may say, For now foul sluts in dairies Do fare as well as they; For though they sweep their hearths no less
('Join in, Una!')
Than maids were wont to do, Yet who of late for cleanliness Finds sixpence in her shoe?'
The echoes flapped all along the flat meadow.
'Of course I know it,' he said.
'And then there's the verse about the Rings,' said Dan. 'When I was littleit always made me feel unhappy in my inside.'
'"Witness those rings and roundelays," do you mean?' boomed Puck, with avoice like a great church organ.
'Of theirs which yet remain, Were footed in Queen Mary's days On many a grassy plain. But since of late Elizabeth, And later James came in, Are never seen on any heath As when the time hath been.
'It's some time since I heard that sung, but there's no good beating aboutthe bush: it's true. The People of the Hills have all left. I saw themcome into Old England and I saw them go. Giants, trolls, kelpies,brownies, goblins, imps; wood, tree, mound, and water spirits;heath-people, hill-watchers, treasure-guards, good people, little people,pishogues, leprechauns, night-riders, pixies, nixies, gnomes and therest--gone, all gone! I came into England with Oak, Ash, and Thorn, andwhen Oak, Ash, and Thorn are gone I shall go too.'
Dan looked round the meadow--at Una's oak by the lower gate, at the line ofash trees that overhang Otter Pool where the mill-s
tream spills over whenthe mill does not need it, and at the gnarled old white-thorn where ThreeCows scratched their necks.
'It's all right,' he said; and added, 'I'm planting a lot of acorns thisautumn too.'
'Then aren't you most awfully old?' said Una.
'Not old--fairly long-lived, as folk say hereabouts. Let me see--my friendsused to set my dish of cream for me o' nights when Stonehenge was new.Yes, before the Flint Men made the Dewpond under Chanctonbury Ring.'
Una clasped her hands, cried 'Oh!' and nodded her head.
'She's thought a plan,' Dan explained. 'She always does like that when shethinks a plan.'
'I was thinking--suppose we saved some of our porridge and put it in theattic for you. They'd notice if we left it in the nursery.'
'Schoolroom,' said Dan, quickly, and Una flushed, because they had made asolemn treaty that summer not to call the schoolroom the nursery any more.
'Bless your heart o' gold!' said Puck. 'You'll make a fine consideringwench some market-day. I really don't want you to put out a bowl for me;but if ever I need a bite, be sure I'll tell you.'
He stretched himself at length on the dry grass, and the childrenstretched out beside him, their bare legs waving happily in the air. Theyfelt they could not be afraid of him any more than of their particularfriend old Hobden, the hedger. He did not bother them with grown-upquestions, or laugh at the donkey's head, but lay and smiled to himself inthe most sensible way.
'Have you a knife on you?' he said at last.
Dan handed over his big one-bladed outdoor knife, and Puck began to carveout a piece of turf from the centre of the Ring.
'What's that for--Magic?' said Una, as he pressed up the square ofchocolate loam that cut like so much cheese.
'One of my little Magics,' he answered, and cut another. 'You see, I can'tlet you into the Hills because the People of the Hills have gone; but ifyou care to take seizin from me, I may be able to show you something outof the common here on Human Earth. You certainly deserve it.'
'What's taking seizin?' said Dan, cautiously.
'It's an old custom the people had when they bought and sold land. Theyused to cut out a clod and hand it over to the buyer, and you weren'tlawfully seized of your land--it didn't really belong to you--till the otherfellow had actually given you a piece of it--like this.' He held out theturves.
'But it's our own meadow,' said Dan, drawing back. 'Are you going to magicit away?'
Puck laughed. 'I know it's your meadow, but there's a great deal more init than you or your father ever guessed. Try!'
He turned his eyes on Una.
'I'll do it,' she said. Dan followed her example at once.
'Now are you two lawfully seized and possessed of all Old England,' beganPuck, in a sing-song voice. 'By Right of Oak, Ash, and Thorn are you freeto come and go and look and know where I shall show or best you please.You shall see What you shall see and you shall hear What you shall hear,though It shall have happened three thousand year; and you shall knowneither Doubt nor Fear. Fast! Hold fast all I give you.'
The children shut their eyes, but nothing happened.
'Well?' said Una, disappointedly opening them. 'I thought there would bedragons.'
'Though It shall have happened three thousand year,' said Puck, andcounted on his fingers. 'No; I'm afraid there were no dragons threethousand years ago.'
'But there hasn't happened anything at all,' said Dan.
'Wait awhile,' said Puck. 'You don't grow an oak in a year--and OldEngland's older than twenty oaks. Let's sit down again and think. _I_ cando that for a century at a time.'
'Ah, but you are a fairy,' said Dan.
'Have you ever heard me use that word yet?' said Puck, quickly.
'No. You talk about "the People of the Hills," but you never say"fairies,"' said Una. 'I was wondering at that. Don't you like it?'
'How would you like to be called "mortal" or "human being" all the time?'said Puck; 'or "son of Adam" or "daughter of Eve"?'
'I shouldn't like it at all,' said Dan. 'That's how the Djinns and Afritstalk in the _Arabian Nights_.'
'And that's how _I_ feel about saying--that word that I don't say. Besides,what you call _them_ are made-up things the People of the Hills have neverheard of--little buzzflies with butterfly wings and gauze petticoats, andshiny stars in their hair, and a wand like a schoolteacher's cane forpunishing bad boys and rewarding good ones. _I_ know 'em!'
'We don't mean that sort,' said Dan. 'We hate 'em too.'
'Exactly,' said Puck. 'Can you wonder that the People of the Hills don'tcare to be confused with that painty-winged, wand-waving,sugar-and-shake-your-head set of impostors? Butterfly wings, indeed! I'veseen Sir Huon and a troop of his people setting off from Tintagel Castlefor Hy-Brasil in the teeth of a sou'-westerly gale, with the spray flyingall over the castle, and the Horses of the Hill wild with fright. Outthey'd go in a lull, screaming like gulls, and back they'd be driven fivegood miles inland before they could come head to wind again.Butterfly-wings! It was Magic--Magic as black as Merlin could make it, andthe whole sea was green fire and white foam with singing mermaids in it.And the Horses of the Hill picked their way from one wave to another bythe lightning flashes! _That_ was how it was in the old days!'
'Splendid,' said Dan, but Una shuddered.
'I'm glad they're gone, then; but what made the People of the Hills goaway?' Una asked.
'Different things. I'll tell you one of them some day--the thing that madethe biggest flit of any,' said Puck. 'But they didn't all flit at once.They dropped off, one by one, through the centuries. Most of them wereforeigners who couldn't stand our climate. _They_ flitted early.'
'How early?' said Dan.
'A couple of thousand years or more. The fact is they began as Gods. ThePhoenicians brought some over when they came to buy tin; and the Gauls, andthe Jutes, and the Danes, and the Frisians, and the Angles brought morewhen they landed. They were always landing in those days, or being drivenback to their ships, and they always brought their Gods with them. Englandis a bad country for Gods. Now, _I_ began as I mean to go on. A bowl ofporridge, a dish of milk, and a little quiet fun with the country folk inthe lanes was enough for me then, as it is now. I belong here, you see,and I have been mixed up with people all my days. But most of the othersinsisted on being Gods, and having temples, and altars, and priests, andsacrifices of their own.'
'People burned in wicker baskets?' said Dan. 'Like Miss Blake tells usabout?'
'All sorts of sacrifices,' said Puck. 'If it wasn't men, it was horses, orcattle, or pigs, or metheglin--that's a sticky, sweet sort of beer. _I_never liked it. They were a stiff-necked, extravagant set of idols, theOld Things. But what was the result? Men don't like being sacrificed atthe best of times; they don't even like sacrificing their farm-horses.After a while men simply left the Old Things alone, and the roofs of theirtemples fell in, and the Old Things had to scuttle out and pick up aliving as they could. Some of them took to hanging about trees, and hidingin graves and groaning o' nights. If they groaned loud enough and longenough they might frighten a poor countryman into sacrificing a hen, orleaving a pound of butter for them. I remember one Goddess calledBelisama. She became a common wet water-spirit somewhere in Lancashire.And there were hundreds of other friends of mine. First they were Gods.Then they were People of the Hills, and then they flitted to other placesbecause they couldn't get on with the English for one reason or another.There was only one Old Thing, I remember, who honestly worked for hisliving after he came down in the world. He was called Weland, and he was asmith to some Gods. I've forgotten their names, but he used to make themswords and spears. I think he claimed kin with Thor of the Scandinavians.'
'_Heroes of Asgard_ Thor?' said Una. She had been reading the book.
'Perhaps,' answered Puck. 'None the less, when bad times came, he didn'tbeg or steal. He worked; and I was lucky enough to be able to do him agood turn.'
'Tell us about it,' said Dan. 'I think I like hearing of Old Things.
'
They rearranged themselves comfortably, each chewing a grass stem. Puckpropped himself on one strong arm and went on:
'Let's think! I met Weland first on a November afternoon in a sleet storm,on Pevensey Level----'
'Pevensey? Over the hill, you mean?' Dan pointed south.
'Yes; but it was all marsh in those days, right up to Horsebridge andHydeneye. I was on Beacon Hill--they called it Brunanburgh then--when I sawthe pale flame that burning thatch makes, and I went down to look. Somepirates--I think they must have been Peofn's men--were burning a village onthe Levels, and Weland's image--a big, black wooden thing with amber beadsround its neck--lay in the bows of a black thirty-two-oar galley that theyhad just beached. Bitter cold it was! There were icicles hanging from herdeck, and the oars were glazed over with ice, and there was ice onWeland's lips. When he saw me he began a long chant in his own tongue,telling me how he was going to rule England, and how I should smell thesmoke of his altars from Lincolnshire to the Isle of Wight. _I_ didn'tcare! I'd seen too many Gods charging into Old England to be upset aboutit. I let him sing himself out while his men were burning the village, andthen I said (I don't know what put it into my head), "Smith of the Gods,"I said, "the time comes when I shall meet you plying your trade for hireby the wayside."'
'What did Weland say?' said Una. 'Was he angry?'
'He called me names and rolled his eyes, and I went away to wake up thepeople inland. But the pirates conquered the country, and for centuriesWeland was a most important God. He had temples everywhere--fromLincolnshire to the Isle of Wight, as he said--and his sacrifices weresimply scandalous. To do him justice, he preferred horses to men; but men_or_ horses, I knew that presently he'd have to come down in theworld--like the other Old Things. I gave him lots of time--I gave him abouta thousand years--and at the end of 'em I went into one of his temples nearAndover to see how he prospered. There was his altar, and there was hisimage, and there were his priests, and there were the congregation, andeverybody seemed quite happy, except Weland and the priests. In the olddays the congregation were unhappy until the priests had chosen theirsacrifices; and so would _you_ have been. When the service began a priestrushed out, dragged a man up to the altar, pretended to hit him on thehead with a little gilt axe, and the man fell down and pretended to die.Then everybody shouted: "A sacrifice to Weland! A sacrifice to Weland!"'
'And the man wasn't really dead?' said Una.
'Not a bit. All as much pretence as a dolls' tea-party. Then they broughtout a splendid white horse, and the priest cut some hair from its mane andtail and burned it on the altar, shouting, "A sacrifice!" That counted thesame as if a man and a horse had been killed. I saw poor Weland's facethrough the smoke, and I couldn't help laughing. He looked so disgustedand so hungry, and all he had to satisfy himself was a horrid smell ofburning hair. Just a dolls' tea-party!
'I judged it better not to say anything then ('twouldn't have been fair),and the next time I came to Andover, a few hundred years later, Weland andhis temple were gone, and there was a Christian bishop in a Church there.None of the People of the Hills could tell me anything about him, and Isupposed that he had left England.' Puck turned; lay on the other elbow,and thought for a long time.
'Let's see,' he said at last. 'It must have been some few years later--ayear or two before the Conquest, I think--that I came back to Pook's Hillhere, and one evening I heard old Hobden talking about Weland's Ford.'
'If you mean old Hobden the hedger, he's only seventy-two. He told me sohimself,' said Dan. 'He's a intimate friend of ours.'
'You're quite right,' Puck replied. 'I meant old Hobden's ninthgreat-grandfather. He was a free man and burned charcoal hereabouts. I'veknown the family, father and son, so long that I get confused sometimes.Hob of the Dene was my Hobden's name, and he lived at the Forge cottage.Of course, I pricked up my ears when I heard Weland mentioned, and Iscuttled through the woods to the Ford just beyond Bog Wood yonder.' Hejerked his head westward, where the valley narrows between wooded hillsand steep hop-fields.
'Why, that's Willingford Bridge,' said Una. 'We go there for walks often.There's a kingfisher there.'
'It was Weland's Ford then, dear. A road led down to it from the Beacon onthe top of the hill--a shocking bad road it was--and all the hillside wasthick, thick oak-forest, with deer in it. There was no trace of Weland,but presently I saw a fat old farmer riding down from the Beacon under thegreenwood tree. His horse had cast a shoe in the clay, and when he came tothe Ford he dismounted, took a penny out of his purse, laid it on a stone,tied the old horse to an oak, and called out: "Smith, Smith, here is workfor you!" Then he sat down and went to sleep. You can imagine how _I_ feltwhen I saw a white-bearded, bent old blacksmith in a leather apron creepout from behind the oak and begin to shoe the horse. It was Welandhimself. I was so astonished that I jumped out and said: "What on HumanEarth are you doing here, Weland?"'
'Poor Weland!' sighed Una.
'He pushed the long hair back from his forehead (he didn't recognise me atfirst). Then he said: "_You_ ought to know. You foretold it, Old Thing.I'm shoeing horses for hire. I'm not even Weland now," he said. "They callme Wayland-Smith."'
'Poor chap!' said Dan. 'What did you say?'
'What could I say? He looked up, with the horse's foot on his lap, and hesaid, smiling, "I remember the time when I wouldn't have accepted this oldbag of bones as a sacrifice, and now I'm glad enough to shoe him for apenny."
'"Isn't there any way for you to get back to Valhalla, or wherever youcome from?" I said.
'"I'm afraid not," he said, rasping away at the hoof. He had a wonderfultouch with horses. The old beast was whinnying on his shoulder. "You mayremember that I was not a gentle God in my Day and my Time and my Power. Ishall never be released till some human being truly wishes me well."
'"Surely," said I, "the farmer can't do less than that. You're shoeing thehorse all round for him."
'"Yes," said he, "and my nails will hold a shoe from one full moon to thenext. But farmers and Weald Clay," said he, "are both uncommon cold andsour."
'Would you believe it, that when that farmer woke and found his horse shodhe rode away without one word of thanks? I was so angry that I wheeled hishorse right round and walked him back three miles to the Beacon just toteach the old sinner politeness.'
'Were you invisible?' said Una. Puck nodded, gravely.
'The Beacon was always laid in those days ready to light, in case theFrench landed at Pevensey; and I walked the horse about and about it thatlee-long summer night. The farmer thought he was bewitched--well, he _was_,of course--and began to pray and shout. _I_ didn't care! I was as good aChristian as he any fair-day in the County, and about four o'clock in themorning a young novice came along from the monastery that used to stand onthe top of Beacon hill.'
'What's a novice?' said Dan.
'It really means a man who is beginning to be a monk, but in those dayspeople sent their sons to a monastery just the same as a school. Thisyoung fellow had been to a monastery in France for a few months everyyear, and he was finishing his studies in the monastery close to his homehere. Hugh was his name, and he had got up to go fishing hereabouts. Hispeople owned all this valley. Hugh heard the farmer shouting, and askedhim what in the world he meant. The old man spun him a wonderful taleabout fairies and goblins and witches; and I _know_ he hadn't seen a thingexcept rabbits and red deer all that night. (The People of the Hills arelike otters--they don't show except when they choose.) But the novicewasn't a fool. He looked down at the horse's feet, and saw the new shoesfastened as only Weland knew how to fasten 'em. (Weland had a way ofturning down the nails that folks called the Smith's Clinch.)
'"H'm!" said the novice. "Where did you get your horse shod?"
'The farmer wouldn't tell him at first, because the priests never likedtheir people to have any dealings with the Old Things. At last heconfessed that the Smith had done it. "What did you pay him?" said thenovice. "Penny," said the farmer, very sulkily. "That's less tha
n aChristian would have charged," said the novice. "I hope you threw a 'Thankyou' into the bargain." "No," said the farmer; "Wayland-Smith's aheathen." "Heathen or no heathen," said the novice, "you took his help,and where you get help there you must give thanks." "What?" said thefarmer--he was in a furious temper because I was walking the old horse incircles all this time--"What, you young jackanapes?" said he. "Then by yourreasoning I ought to say 'Thank you' to Satan if he helped me?" "Don'troll about up there splitting reasons with me," said the novice. "Comeback to the Ford and thank the Smith, or you'll be sorry."
'Back the farmer had to go! I led the horse, though no one saw me, and thenovice walked beside us, his gown swishing through the shiny dew and hisfishing-rod across his shoulders spearwise. When we reached the Fordagain--it was five o'clock and misty still under the oaks--the farmer simplywouldn't say "Thank you." He said he'd tell the Abbot that the novicewanted him to worship heathen gods. Then Hugh the novice lost his temper.He just cried, "Out!" put his arm under the farmer's fat leg, and heavedhim from his saddle on to the turf, and before he could rise he caught himby the back of the neck and shook him like a rat till the farmer growled,"Thank you, Wayland-Smith."'
'Did Weland see all this?' said Dan.
'Oh, yes, and he shouted his old war-cry when the farmer thudded on to theground. He was delighted. Then the novice turned to the oak and said, "Ho!Smith of the Gods, I am ashamed of this rude farmer; but for all you havedone in kindness and charity to him and to others of our people, I thankyou and wish you well." Then he picked up his fishing-rod--it looked morelike a tall spear than ever--and tramped off down your valley.'
'And what did poor Weland do?' said Una.
'He laughed and cried with joy, because he had been released at last, andcould go away. But he was an honest Old Thing. He had worked for hisliving and he paid his debts before he left. "I shall give that novice agift," said Weland. "A gift that shall do him good the wide world over,and Old England after him. Blow up my fire, Old Thing, while I get theiron for my last task." Then he made a sword--a dark grey, wavy-linedsword--and I blew the fire while he hammered. By Oak, Ash, and Thorn, Itell you, Weland was a Smith of the Gods! He cooled that sword in runningwater twice, and the third time he cooled it in the evening dew, and helaid it out in the moonlight and said Runes (that's charms) over it, andhe carved Runes of Prophecy on the blade. "Old Thing," he said to me,wiping his forehead, "this is the best blade that Weland ever made. Eventhe user will never know how good it is. Come to the monastery."
'We went to the dormitory where the monks slept. We saw the novice fastasleep in his cot, and Weland put the sword into his hand, and I rememberthe young fellow gripped it in his sleep. Then Weland strode as far as hedared into the Chapel and threw down all his shoeing-tools--his hammer, andpincers, and rasps--to show that he had done with them for ever. It soundedlike suits of armour falling, and the sleepy monks ran in, for theythought the monastery had been attacked by the French. The novice camefirst of all, waving his new sword and shouting Saxon battle-cries. Whenthey saw the shoeing-tools they were very bewildered, till the noviceasked leave to speak, and told what he had done to the farmer, and what hehad said to Wayland-Smith, and how, though the dormitory light wasburning, he had found the wonderful rune-carved sword in his cot.
'The Abbot shook his head at first, and then he laughed and said to thenovice: "Son Hugh, it needed no sign from a heathen God to show me thatyou will never be a monk. Take your sword, and keep your sword, and gowith your sword, and be as gentle as you are strong and courteous. We willhang up the Smith's tools before the Altar," he said, "because, whateverthe Smith of the Gods may have been in the old days, we know that heworked honestly for his living and made gifts to Mother Church." Then theywent to bed again, all except the novice, and he sat up in the garthplaying with his sword. Then Weland said to me by the stables: "Farewell,Old Thing; you had the right of it. You saw me come to England, and yousee me go. Farewell!"
'With that he strode down the hill to the corner of the Great Woods--WoodsCorner, you call it now--to the very place where he had first landed--and Iheard him moving through the thickets towards Horsebridge for a little,and then he was gone. That was how it happened. I saw it.'
Both children drew a long breath.
'But what happened to Hugh the novice?' said Una.
'And the sword?' said Dan.
Puck looked down the meadow that lay all quiet and cool in the shadow ofPook's Hill. A corncrake jarred in a hay-field near by, and the smalltrouts of the brook began to jump. A big white moth flew unsteadily fromthe alders and flapped round the children's heads, and the least littlehaze of water-mist rose from the brook.
'Do you really want to know?' Puck said.
'We do,' cried the children. 'Awfully!'
'Very good. I promised you that you shall see What you shall see, and youshall hear What you shall hear, though It shall have happened threethousand year; but just now it seems to me that, unless you go back to thehouse, people will be looking for you. I'll walk with you as far as thegate.'
'Will you be here when we come again?' they asked.
'Surely, sure-ly,' said Puck. 'I've been here some time already. Oneminute first, please.'
He gave them each three leaves--one of Oak, one of Ash, and one of Thorn.
'Bite these,' said he. 'Otherwise you might be talking at home of whatyou've seen and heard, and--if I know human beings--they'd send for thedoctor. Bite!'
They bit hard, and found themselves walking side by side to the lowergate. Their father was leaning over it.
'And how did your play go?' he asked.
'Oh, splendidly,' said Dan. 'Only afterwards, I think, we went to sleep.It was very hot and quiet. Don't you remember, Una?'
Una shook her head and said nothing.
'I see,' said her father.
'Late--late in the evening Kilmeny came home, For Kilmeny had been she could not tell where, And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare.
But why are you chewing leaves at your time of life, daughter? For fun?'
'No. It was for something, but I can't azactly remember,' said Una.
And neither of them could till--