{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_15976/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_15976","id":"gutenberg_15976","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/15976","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Science-Fiction & Fantasy","Children's Literature","Great Britain -- History -- Fiction","Nobel Prizes in Literature","Scouts","Space and time -- Fiction"],"text":"Produced by Malcolm Farmer\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's note: This text was based on the 1996 plain ASCII\ntext created by Jo Churcher, Scarborough, Ontario (jchurche@io.org),\nthen proofread against a 1911 reprint of a 1906 edition (Macmillan &\nCo. Ltd., London).\nThe illustrations by H.R. Millar have been omitted from this text-only\nversion.\n\n---------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n\n\n                          PUCK OF POOK'S HILL\n                                  by\n                            RUDYARD KIPLING\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nWeland's Sword\nYoung Men at the Manor\nThe Knights of the Joyous Venture\nOld Men at Pevensey\nA Centurion of the Thirtieth\nOn the Great Wall\nThe Winged Hats\nHal o' the Draft\n'Dymchurch Flit'\nThe Treasure and the Law\n\n\n\n\nWELAND'S SWORD\n\n\nPuck's Song\n\n\nSee you the dimpled track that runs,\n    All hollow through the wheat?\nO that was where they hauled the guns\n    That smote King Philip's fleet!\n\nSee you our little mill that clacks,\n    So busy by the brook?\nShe has ground her corn and paid her tax\n    Ever since Domesday Book.\n\nSee you our stilly woods of oak,\n    And the dread ditch beside?\nO that was where the Saxons broke,\n    On the day that Harold died!\n\nSee you the windy levels spread\n    About the gates of Rye?\nO that was where the Northmen fled,\n    When Alfred's ships came by!\n\nSee you our pastures wide and lone,\n    Where the red oxen browse?\nO there was a City thronged and known,\n    Ere London boasted a house!\n\nAnd see you, after rain, the trace\n   Of mound and ditch and wall?\nO that was a Legion's camping-place,\n   When Caesar sailed from Gaul!\n\nAnd see you marks that show and fade,\n  Like shadows on the Downs?\nO they are the lines the Flint Men made,\n  To guard their wondrous towns!\n\nTrackway and Camp and City lost,\n  Salt Marsh where now is corn;\nOld Wars, old Peace, old Arts that cease,\n  And so was England born!\n\nShe is not any common Earth,\n  Water or Wood or Air,\nBut Merlin's Isle of Gramarye,\n  Where you and I will fare.\n\n\nThe children were at the Theatre, acting to Three Cows as much as they\ncould remember of _Midsummer Night's Dream_. Their father had made them\na small play out of the big Shakespeare one, and they had rehearsed it\nwith him and with their mother till they could say it by heart. They\nbegan when Nick Bottom the weaver comes out of the bushes with a\ndonkey's head on his shoulders, and finds Titania, Queen of the Fairies,\nasleep. Then they skipped to the part where Bottom asks three little\nfairies to scratch his head and bring him honey, and they ended where he\nfalls asleep in Titania's arms. Dan was Puck and Nick Bottom, as well as\nall three Fairies. He wore a pointy-eared cloth cap for Puck, and a\npaper donkey's head out of a Christmas cracker--but it tore if you were\nnot careful--for Bottom. Una was Titania, with a wreath of columbines\nand a foxglove wand.\n\nThe Theatre lay in a meadow called the Long Slip. A little mill-stream,\ncarrying water to a mill two or three fields away, bent round one corner\nof it, and in the middle of the bend lay a large old Fairy Ring of\ndarkened grass, which was the stage. The millstream banks, overgrown\nwith willow, hazel, and guelder-rose, made convenient places to wait in\ntill your turn came; and a grown-up who had seen it said that\nShakespeare himself could not have imagined a more suitable setting for\nhis play. They were not, of course, allowed to act on Midsummer Night\nitself, but they went down after tea on Midsummer Eve, when the shadows\nwere growing, and they took their supper--hard-boiled eggs, Bath Oliver\nbiscuits, and salt in an envelope--with them. Three Cows had been milked\nand were grazing steadily with a tearing noise that one could hear all\ndown the meadow; and the noise of the Mill at work sounded like bare\nfeet running on hard ground. A cuckoo sat on a gate-post singing his\nbroken June tune, 'cuckoo-cuk', while a busy kingfisher crossed from the\nmill-stream, to the brook which ran on the other side of the meadow.\nEverything else was a sort of thick, sleepy stillness smelling of\nmeadow-sweet and dry grass.\n\nTheir play went beautifully. Dan remembered all his parts--Puck, Bottom,\nand the three Fairies--and Una never forgot a word of Titania--not even\nthe difficult piece where she tells the Fairies how to feed Bottom with\n'apricocks, green figs, and dewberries', and all the lines end in 'ies'.\nThey were both so pleased that they acted it three times over from\nbeginning to end before they sat down in the unthistly centre of the\nRing to eat eggs and Bath Olivers. This was when they heard a whistle\namong the alders on the bank, and they jumped.\n\nThe bushes parted. In the very spot where Dan had stood as Puck they saw\na small, brown, broad-shouldered, pointy-eared person with a snub nose,\nslanting blue eyes, and a grin that ran right across his freckled face.\nHe shaded his forehead as though he were watching Quince, Snout, Bottom,\nand the others rehearsing _Pyramus and Thisbe_, and, in a voice as deep\nas Three Cows asking to be milked, he began:\n\n'What hempen homespuns have we swaggering here,\nSo near the cradle of our fairy Queen?'\n\nHe stopped, hollowed one hand round his ear, and, with a wicked twinkle\nin his eye, went on:\n\n'What, a play toward? I'll be auditor;\nAn actor, too, perhaps, if I see cause.'\n\nThe children looked and gasped. The small thing--he was no taller than\nDan's shoulder--stepped quietly into the Ring.\n\n'I'm rather out of practice,' said he; 'but that's the way my part ought\nto be played.'\n\nStill the children stared at him--from his dark-blue cap, like a big\ncolumbine flower, to his bare, hairy feet. At last he laughed.\n\n'Please don't look like that. It isn't my fault. What else could you\nexpect?' he said.\n\n'We didn't expect any one,' Dan answered, slowly. 'This is our field.'\n\n'Is it?' said their visitor, sitting down. 'Then what on Human Earth\nmade you act _Midsummer Night's Dream_ three times over, _on_ Midsummer\nEve, _in_ the middle of a Ring, and under--right _under_ one of my\noldest hills in Old England? Pook's Hill--Puck's Hill--Puck's\nHill--Pook's Hill! It's as plain as the nose on my face.'\n\nHe pointed to the bare, fern-covered slope of Pook's Hill that runs up\nfrom the far side of the mill-stream to a dark wood. Beyond that wood\nthe ground rises and rises for five hundred feet, till at last you climb\nout on the bare top of Beacon Hill, to look over the Pevensey Levels and\nthe Channel and half the naked South Downs.\n\n'By Oak, Ash, and Thorn!' he cried, still laughing. 'If this had\nhappened a few hundred years ago you'd have had all the People of the\nHills out like bees in June!'\n\n'We didn't know it was wrong,' said Dan.\n\n'Wrong!' The little fellow shook with laughter. 'Indeed, it isn't wrong.\nYou've done something that Kings and Knights and Scholars in old days\nwould have given their crowns and spurs and books to find out. If Merlin\nhimself had helped you, you couldn't have managed better! You've broken\nthe Hills--you've broken the Hills! It hasn't happened in a thousand\nyears.'\n\n'We--we didn't mean to,' said Una.\n\n'Of course you didn't! That's just why you did it. Unluckily the Hills\nare empty now, and all the People of the Hills are gone. I'm the only\none left. I'm Puck, the oldest Old Thing in England, very much at your\nservice if--if you care to have anything to do with me. If you don't, of\ncourse you've only to say so, and I'll go.'\n\nHe looked at the children, and the children looked at him for quite half\na minute. His eyes did not twinkle any more. They were very kind, and\nthere was the beginning of a good smile on his lips.\n\nUna put out her hand. 'Don't go,' she said. 'We like you.'\n\n'Have a Bath Oliver,' said Dan, and he passed over the squashy envelope\nwith the eggs.\n\n'By Oak, Ash and Thorn,' cried Puck, taking off his blue cap, 'I like\nyou too. Sprinkle a plenty salt on the biscuit, Dan, and I'll eat it\nwith you. That'll show you the sort of person I am. Some of us'--he went\non, with his mouth full--'couldn't abide Salt, or Horse-shoes over a\ndoor, or Mountain-ash berries, or Running Water, or Cold Iron, or the\nsound of Church Bells. But I'm Puck!'\n\nHe brushed the crumbs carefully from his doublet and shook hands.\n\n'We always said, Dan and I,' Una stammered, 'that if it ever happened\nwe'd know ex-actly what to do; but--but now it seems all different\nsomehow.'\n\n'She means meeting a fairy,' said Dan. 'I never believed in 'em--not\nafter I was six, anyhow.'\n\n'I did,' said Una. 'At least, I sort of half believed till we learned\n\"Farewell Rewards\". Do you know \"Farewell Rewards and Fairies\"?'\n\n'Do you mean this?' said Puck. He threw his big head back and began at\nthe second line:\n\n  'Good housewives now may say,\nFor now foul sluts in dairies\n  Do fare as well as they;\nAnd though they sweep their hearths no less\n\n('Join in, Una!')\n\nThan maids were wont to do,\nYet who of late for cleanliness\nFinds sixpence in her shoe?'\n\nThe echoes flapped all along the flat meadow.\n\n'Of course I know it,' he said.\n\n'And then there's the verse about the rings,' said Dan. 'When I was\nlittle it always made me feel unhappy in my inside.'\n\n'\"Witness those rings and roundelays\", do you mean?' boomed Puck, with a\nvoice like a great church organ.\n\n  'Of theirs which yet remain,\nWere footed in Queen Mary's days\n  On many a grassy plain,\nBut since of late Elizabeth,\n  And, later, James came in,\nAre never seen on any heath\n  As when the time hath been.'\n\n'It's some time since I heard that sung, but there's no good beating\nabout the bush: it's true. The People of the Hills have all left. I saw\nthem come into Old England and I saw them go. Giants, trolls, kelpies,\nbrownies, goblins, imps; wood, tree, mound, and water spirits;\nheath-people, hill-watchers, treasure-guards, good people, little\npeople, pishogues, leprechauns, night-riders, pixies, nixies, gnomes,\nand the rest--gone, all gone! I came into England with Oak, Ash and\nThorn, and when Oak, Ash and Thorn are gone I shall go too.'\n\nDan looked round the meadow--at Una's Oak by the lower gate; at the line\nof ash trees that overhang Otter Pool where the mill-stream spills over\nwhen the Mill does not need it, and at the gnarled old white-thorn where\nThree Cows scratched their necks.\n\n'It's all right,' he said; and added, 'I'm planting a lot of acorns this\nautumn too.'\n\n'Then aren't you most awfully old?' said Una.\n\n'Not old--fairly long-lived, as folk say hereabouts. Let me see--my\nfriends used to set my dish of cream for me o' nights when Stonehenge\nwas new. Yes, before the Flint Men made the Dewpond under Chanctonbury\nRing.'\n\nUna clasped her hands, cried 'Oh!' and nodded her head.\n\n'She's thought a plan,' Dan explained. 'She always does like that when\nshe thinks a plan.'\n\n'I was thinking--suppose we saved some of our porridge and put it in the\nattic for you? They'd notice if we left it in the nursery.'\n\n'Schoolroom,' said Dan quickly, and Una flushed, because they had made a\nsolemn treaty that summer not to call the schoolroom the nursery any\nmore.\n\n'Bless your heart o' gold!' said Puck. 'You'll make a fine considering\nwench some market-day. I really don't want you to put out a bowl for me;\nbut if ever I need a bite, be sure I'll tell you.'\n\nHe stretched himself at length on the dry grass, and the children\nstretched out beside him, their bare legs waving happily in the air.\nThey felt they could not be afraid of him any more than of their\nparticular friend old Hobden the hedger. He did not bother them with\ngrown-up questions, or laugh at the donkey's head, but lay and smiled to\nhimself in the most sensible way.\n\n'Have you a knife on you?' he said at last.\n\nDan handed over his big one-bladed outdoor knife, and Puck began to\ncarve out a piece of turf from the centre of the Ring.\n\n'What's that for--Magic?' said Una, as he pressed up the square of\nchocolate loam that cut like so much cheese.\n\n'One of my little magics,' he answered, and cut another. 'You see, I\ncan't let you into the Hills because the People of the Hills have gone;\nbut if you care to take seizin from me, I may be able to show you\nsomething out of the common here on Human Earth. You certainly deserve\nit.'\n\n'What's taking seizin?' said Dan, cautiously.\n\n'It's an old custom the people had when they bought and sold land. They\nused to cut out a clod and hand it over to the buyer, and you weren't\nlawfully seized of your land--it didn't really belong to you--till the\nother fellow had actually given you a piece of it--like this.' He held\nout the turves.\n\n'But it's our own meadow,' said Dan, drawing back. 'Are you going to\nmagic it away?'\n\nPuck laughed. 'I know it's your meadow, but there's a great deal more in\nit than you or your father ever guessed. Try!'\n\nHe turned his eyes on Una.\n\n'I'll do it,' she said. Dan followed her example at once.\n\n'Now are you two lawfully seized and possessed of all Old England,'\nbegan Puck, in a sing-song voice. 'By right of Oak, Ash, and Thorn are\nyou free to come and go and look and know where I shall show or best you\nplease. You shall see What you shall see and you shall hear What you\nshall hear, though It shall have happened three thousand year; and you\nshall know neither Doubt nor Fear. Fast! Hold fast all I give you.'\n\nThe children shut their eyes, but nothing happened.\n\n'Well?' said Una, disappointedly opening them. 'I thought there would be\ndragons.'\n\n'\"Though It shall have happened three thousand year,\"' said Puck, and\ncounted on his fingers. 'No; I'm afraid there were no dragons three\nthousand years ago.'\n\n'But there hasn't happened anything at all,' said Dan.\n\n'Wait awhile,' said Puck. 'You don't grow an oak in a year--and Old\nEngland's older than twenty oaks. Let's sit down again and think. _I_\ncan do that for a century at a time.'\n\n'Ah, but you're a fairy,' said Dan.\n\n'Have you ever heard me say that word yet?' said Puck quickly.\n\n'No. You talk about \"the People of the Hills\", but you never say\n\"fairies\",' said Una. 'I was wondering at that. Don't you like it?'\n\n'How would you like to be called \"mortal\" or \"human being\" all the\ntime?' said Puck; 'or \"son of Adam\" or \"daughter of Eve\"?'\n\n'I shouldn't like it at all,' said Dan. 'That's how the Djinns and\nAfrits talk in the _Arabian Nights_.'\n\n'And that's how _I_ feel about saying--that word that I don't say.\nBesides, what you call them are made-up things the People of the Hills\nhave never heard of--little buzzflies with butterfly wings and gauze\npetticoats, and shiny stars in their hair, and a wand like a\nschoolteacher's cane for punishing bad boys and rewarding good ones. _I_\nknow 'em!'\n\n'We don't mean that sort,' said Dan. 'We hate 'em too.'\n\n'Exactly,' said Puck. 'Can you wonder that the People of the Hills don't\ncare to be confused with that painty-winged, wand-waving,\nsugar-and-shake-your-head set of impostors? Butterfly wings, indeed!\nI've seen Sir Huon and a troop of his people setting off from Tintagel\nCastle for Hy-Brasil in the teeth of a sou'-westerly gale, with the\nspray flying all over the Castle, and the Horses of the Hills wild with\nfright. Out they'd go in a lull, screaming like gulls, and back they'd\nbe driven five good miles inland before they could come head to wind\nagain. Butterfly-wings! It was Magic--Magic as black as Merlin could\nmake it, and the whole sea was green fire and white foam with singing\nmermaids in it. And the Horses of the Hills picked their way from one\nwave to another by the lightning flashes! _That_ was how it was in the\nold days!'\n\n'Splendid,' said Dan, but Una shuddered.\n\n'I'm glad they're gone, then; but what made the People of the Hills go\naway?' Una asked.\n\n'Different things. I'll tell you one of them some day--the thing that\nmade the biggest flit of any,' said Puck. 'But they didn't all flit at\nonce. They dropped off, one by one, through the centuries. Most of them\nwere foreigners who couldn't stand our climate. _They_ flitted early.'\n\n'How early?' said Dan.\n\n'A couple of thousand years or more. The fact is they began as Gods. The\nPhoenicians brought some over when they came to buy tin; and the Gauls,\nand the Jutes, and the Danes, and the Frisians, and the Angles brought\nmore when they landed. They were always landing in those days, or being\ndriven back to their ships, and they always brought their Gods with\nthem. England is a bad country for Gods. Now, _I_ began as I mean to go\non. A bowl of porridge, a dish of milk, and a little quiet fun with the\ncountry folk in the lanes was enough for me then, as it is now. I belong\nhere, you see, and I have been mixed up with people all my days. But\nmost of the others insisted on being Gods, and having temples, and\naltars, and priests, and sacrifices of their own.'\n\n'People burned in wicker baskets?' said Dan. 'Like Miss Blake tells us\nabout?'\n\n'All sorts of sacrifices,' said Puck. 'If it wasn't men, it was horses,\nor cattle, or pigs, or metheglin--that's a sticky, sweet sort of beer.\n_I_ never liked it. They were a stiff-necked, extravagant set of idols,\nthe Old Things. But what was the result? Men don't like being sacrificed\nat the best of times; they don't even like sacrificing their\nfarm-horses. After a while, men simply left the Old Things alone, and\nthe roofs of their temples fell in, and the Old Things had to scuttle\nout and pick up a living as they could. Some of them took to hanging\nabout trees, and hiding in graves and groaning o' nights. If they\ngroaned loud enough and long enough they might frighten a poor\ncountryman into sacrificing a hen, or leaving a pound of butter for\nthem. I remember one Goddess called Belisama. She became a common wet\nwater-spirit somewhere in Lancashire. And there were hundreds of other\nfriends of mine. First they were Gods. Then they were People of the\nHills, and then they flitted to other places because they couldn't get\non with the English for one reason or another. There was only one Old\nThing, I remember, who honestly worked for his living after he came down\nin the world. He was called Weland, and he was a smith to some Gods.\nI've forgotten their names, but he used to make them swords and spears.\nI think he claimed kin with Thor of the Scandinavians.'\n\n'_Heroes of Asgard_ Thor?' said Una. She had been reading the book.\n\n'Perhaps,' answered Puck. 'None the less, when bad times came, he didn't\nbeg or steal. He worked; and I was lucky enough to be able to do him a\ngood turn.'\n\n'Tell us about it,' said Dan. 'I think I like hearing of Old Things.'\n\nThey rearranged themselves comfortably, each chewing a grass stem. Puck\npropped himself on one strong arm and went on:\n\n'Let's think! I met Weland first on a November afternoon in a sleet\nstorm, on Pevensey Level----'\n\n'Pevensey? Over the hill, you mean?' Dan pointed south.\n\n'Yes; but it was all marsh in those days, right up to Horsebridge and\nHydeneye. I was on Beacon Hill--they called it Brunanburgh then--when I\nsaw the pale flame that burning thatch makes, and I went down to look.\nSome pirates--I think they must have been Peofn's men--were burning a\nvillage on the Levels, and Weland's image--a big, black wooden thing\nwith amber beads round his neck--lay in the bows of a black\nthirty-two-oar galley that they had just beached. Bitter cold it was!\nThere were icicles hanging from her deck and the oars were glazed over\nwith ice, and there was ice on Weland's lips. When he saw me he began a\nlong chant in his own tongue, telling me how he was going to rule\nEngland, and how I should smell the smoke of his altars from\nLincolnshire to the Isle of Wight. I didn't care! I'd seen too many Gods\ncharging into Old England to be upset about it. I let him sing himself\nout while his men were burning the village, and then I said (I don't\nknow what put it into my head), \"Smith of the Gods,\" I said, \"the time\ncomes when I shall meet you plying your trade for hire by the wayside.\"'\n\n'What did Weland say?' said Una. 'Was he angry?'\n\n'He called me names and rolled his eyes, and I went away to wake up the\npeople inland. But the pirates conquered the country, and for centuries\nWeland was a most important God. He had temples everywhere--from\nLincolnshire to the Isle of Wight, as he said--and his sacrifices were\nsimply scandalous. To do him justice, he preferred horses to men; but\nmen or horses, I knew that presently he'd have to come down in the\nworld--like the other Old Things. I gave him lots of time--I gave him\nabout a thousand years--and at the end of 'em I went into one of his\ntemples near Andover to see how he prospered. There was his altar, and\nthere was his image, and there were his priests, and there were the\ncongregation, and everybody seemed quite happy, except Weland and the\npriests. In the old days the congregation were unhappy until the priests\nhad chosen their sacrifices; and so would you have been. When the\nservice began a priest rushed out, dragged a man up to the altar,\npretended to hit him on the head with a little gilt axe, and the man\nfell down and pretended to die. Then everybody shouted: \"A sacrifice to\nWeland! A sacrifice to Weland!\"'\n\n'And the man wasn't really dead?' said Una.\n\n'Not a bit. All as much pretence as a dolls' tea-party. Then they\nbrought out a splendid white horse, and the priest cut some hair from\nits mane and tail and burned it on the altar, shouting, \"A sacrifice!\"\nThat counted the same as if a man and a horse had been killed. I saw\npoor Weland's face through the smoke, and I couldn't help laughing. He\nlooked so disgusted and so hungry, and all he had to satisfy himself was\na horrid smell of burning hair. Just a dolls' tea-party!\n\n'I judged it better not to say anything then ('twouldn't have been\nfair), and the next time I came to Andover, a few hundred years later,\nWeland and his temple were gone, and there was a Christian bishop in a\nchurch there. None of the People of the Hills could tell me anything\nabout him, and I supposed that he had left England.' Puck turned; lay on\nthe other elbow, and thought for a long time.\n\n'Let's see,' he said at last. 'It must have been some few years later--a\nyear or two before the Conquest, I think--that I came back to Pook's\nHill here, and one evening I heard old Hobden talking about Weland's\nFord.'\n\n'If you mean old Hobden the hedger, he's only seventy-two. He told me so\nhimself,' said Dan. 'He's a intimate friend of ours.'\n\n'You're quite right,' Puck replied. 'I meant old Hobden's ninth\ngreat-grandfather. He was a free man and burned charcoal hereabouts.\nI've known the family, father and son, so long that I get confused\nsometimes. Hob of the Dene was my Hobden's name, and he lived at the\nForge cottage. Of course, I pricked up my ears when I heard Weland\nmentioned, and I scuttled through the woods to the Ford just beyond Bog\nWood yonder.' He jerked his head westward, where the valley narrows\nbetween wooded hills and steep hop-fields.\n\n'Why, that's Willingford Bridge,' said Una. 'We go there for walks\noften. There's a kingfisher there.'\n\n'It was Weland's Ford then, dear. A road led down to it from the Beacon\non the top of the hill--a shocking bad road it was--and all the hillside\nwas thick, thick oak-forest, with deer in it. There was no trace of\nWeland, but presently I saw a fat old farmer riding down from the Beacon\nunder the greenwood tree. His horse had cast a shoe in the clay, and\nwhen he came to the Ford he dismounted, took a penny out of his purse,\nlaid it on a stone, tied the old horse to an oak, and called out:\n\"Smith, Smith, here is work for you!\" Then he sat down and went to\nsleep. You can imagine how _I_ felt when I saw a white-bearded, bent old\nblacksmith in a leather apron creep out from behind the oak and begin to\nshoe the horse. It was Weland himself. I was so astonished that I jumped\nout and said: \"What on Human Earth are you doing here, Weland?\"'\n\n'Poor Weland!' sighed Una.\n\n'He pushed the long hair back from his forehead (he didn't recognize me\nat first). Then he said: \"_You_ ought to know. You foretold it, Old\nThing. I'm shoeing horses for hire. I'm not even Weland now,\" he said.\n\"They call me Wayland-Smith.\"'\n\n'Poor chap!' said Dan. 'What did you say?'\n\n'What could I say? He looked up, with the horse's foot on his lap, and\nhe said, smiling, \"I remember the time when I wouldn't have accepted\nthis old bag of bones as a sacrifice, and now I'm glad enough to shoe\nhim for a penny.\"\n\n'\"Isn't there any way for you to get back to Valhalla, or wherever you\ncome from?\" I said.\n\n'\"I'm afraid not,\" he said, rasping away at the hoof. He had a wonderful\ntouch with horses. The old beast was whinnying on his shoulder. \"You may\nremember that I was not a gentle God in my Day and my Time and my Power.\nI shall never be released till some human being truly wishes me well.\"\n\n'\"Surely,\" said I, \"the farmer can't do less than that. You're shoeing\nthe horse all round for him.\"\n\n'\"Yes,\" said he, \"and my nails will hold a shoe from one full moon to\nthe next. But farmers and Weald clay,\" said he, \"are both uncommon cold\nand sour.\"\n\n'Would you believe it, that when that farmer woke and found his horse\nshod he rode away without one word of thanks? I was so angry that I\nwheeled his horse right round and walked him back three miles to the\nBeacon, just to teach the old sinner politeness.'\n\n'Were you invisible?' said Una. Puck nodded, gravely.\n\n'The Beacon was always laid in those days ready to light, in case the\nFrench landed at Pevensey; and I walked the horse about and about it\nthat lee-long summer night. The farmer thought he was bewitched--well,\nhe _was_, of course--and began to pray and shout. _I_ didn't care! I was\nas good a Christian as he any fair-day in the County, and about four\no'clock in the morning a young novice came along from the monastery that\nused to stand on the top of Beacon Hill.'\n\n'What's a novice?' said Dan.\n\n'It really means a man who is beginning to be a monk, but in those days\npeople sent their sons to a monastery just the same as a school. This\nyoung fellow had been to a monastery in France for a few months every\nyear, and he was finishing his studies in the monastery close to his\nhome here. Hugh was his name, and he had got up to go fishing\nhereabouts. His people owned all this valley. Hugh heard the farmer\nshouting, and asked him what in the world he meant. The old man spun him\na wonderful tale about fairies and goblins and witches; and I _know_ he\nhadn't seen a thing except rabbits and red deer all that night. (The\nPeople of the Hills are like otters--they don't show except when they\nchoose.) But the novice wasn't a fool. He looked down at the horse's\nfeet, and saw the new shoes fastened as only Weland knew how to fasten\n'em. (Weland had a way of turning down the nails that folks called the\nSmith's Clinch.)\n\n'\"H'm!\" said the novice. \"Where did you get your horse shod?\"\n\n'The farmer wouldn't tell him at first, because the priests never liked\ntheir people to have any dealings with the Old Things. At last he\nconfessed that the Smith had done it. \"What did you pay him?\" said the\nnovice. \"Penny,\" said the farmer, very sulkily. \"That's less than a\nChristian would have charged,\" said the novice. \"I hope you threw a\n'Thank you' into the bargain.\" \"No,\" said the farmer; \"Wayland-Smith's a\nheathen.\" \"Heathen or no heathen,\" said the novice, \"you took his help,\nand where you get help there you must give thanks.\" \"What?\" said the\nfarmer--he was in a furious temper because I was walking the old horse\nin circles all this time--\"What, you young jackanapes?\" said he. \"Then\nby your reasoning I ought to say 'Thank you' to Satan if he helped me?\"\n\"Don't roll about up there splitting reasons with me,\" said the novice.\n\"Come back to the Ford and thank the Smith, or you'll be sorry.\"\n\n'Back the farmer had to go. I led the horse, though no one saw me, and\nthe novice walked beside us, his gown swishing through the shiny dew and\nhis fishing-rod across his shoulders, spear-wise. When we reached the\nFord again--it was five o'clock and misty still under the oaks--the\nfarmer simply wouldn't say \"Thank you.\" He said he'd tell the Abbot that\nthe novice wanted him to worship heathen Gods. Then Hugh the novice lost\nhis temper. He just cried, \"Out!\" put his arm under the farmer's fat\nleg, and heaved him from his saddle on to the turf, and before he could\nrise he caught him by the back of the neck and shook him like a rat till\nthe farmer growled, \"Thank you, Wayland-Smith.\"'\n\n'Did Weland see all this?' said Dan.\n\n'Oh yes, and he shouted his old war-cry when the farmer thudded on to\nthe ground. He was delighted. Then the novice turned to the oak tree and\nsaid, \"Ho, Smith of the Gods! I am ashamed of this rude farmer; but for\nall you have done in kindness and charity to him and to others of our\npeople, I thank you and wish you well.\" Then he picked up his\nfishing-rod--it looked more like a tall spear than ever--and tramped off\ndown your valley.'\n\n'And what did poor Weland do?' said Una.\n\n'He laughed and he cried with joy, because he had been released at last,\nand could go away. But he was an honest Old Thing. He had worked for his\nliving and he paid his debts before he left. \"I shall give that novice a\ngift,\" said Weland. \"A gift that shall do him good the wide world over\nand Old England after him. Blow up my fire, Old Thing, while I get the\niron for my last task.\" Then he made a sword--a dark-grey, wavy-lined\nsword--and I blew the fire while he hammered. By Oak, Ash and Thorn, I\ntell you, Weland was a Smith of the Gods! He cooled that sword in\nrunning water twice, and the third time he cooled it in the evening dew,\nand he laid it out in the moonlight and said Runes (that's charms) over\nit, and he carved Runes of Prophecy on the blade. \"Old Thing,\" he said\nto me, wiping his forehead, \"this is the best blade that Weland ever\nmade. Even the user will never know how good it is. Come to the\nmonastery.\"\n\n'We went to the dormitory where the monks slept, we saw the novice fast\nasleep in his cot, and Weland put the sword into his hand, and I\nremember the young fellow gripped it in his sleep. Then Weland strode as\nfar as he dared into the Chapel and threw down all his\nshoeing-tools--his hammers and pincers and rasps--to show that he had\ndone with them for ever. It sounded like suits of armour falling, and\nthe sleepy monks ran in, for they thought the monastery had been\nattacked by the French. The novice came first of all, waving his new\nsword and shouting Saxon battle-cries. When they saw the shoeing-tools\nthey were very bewildered, till the novice asked leave to speak, and\ntold what he had done to the farmer, and what he had said to\nWayland-Smith, and how, though the dormitory light was burning, he had\nfound the wonderful rune-carved sword in his cot.\n\n'The Abbot shook his head at first, and then he laughed and said to the\nnovice: \"Son Hugh, it needed no sign from a heathen God to show me that\nyou will never be a monk. Take your sword, and keep your sword, and go\nwith your sword, and be as gentle as you are strong and courteous. We\nwill hang up the Smith's tools before the Altar,\" he said, \"because,\nwhatever the Smith of the Gods may have been, in the old days, we know\nthat he worked honestly for his living and made gifts to Mother Church.\"\nThen they went to bed again, all except the novice, and he sat up in the\ngarth playing with his sword. Then Weland said to me by the stables:\n\"Farewell, Old Thing; you had the right of it. You saw me come to\nEngland, and you see me go. Farewell!\"\n\n'With that he strode down the hill to the corner of the Great\nWoods--Woods Corner, you call it now--to the very place where he had\nfirst landed--and I heard him moving through the thickets towards\nHorsebridge for a little, and then he was gone. That was how it\nhappened. I saw it.'\n\nBoth children drew a long breath.\n\n'But what happened to Hugh the novice?' said Una.\n\n'And the sword?' said Dan.\n\nPuck looked down the meadow that lay all quiet and cool in the shadow of\nPook's Hill. A corncrake jarred in a hay-field near by, and the small\ntrouts of the brook began to jump. A big white moth flew unsteadily from\nthe alders and flapped round the children's heads, and the least little\nhaze of water-mist rose from the brook.\n\n'Do you really want to know?' Puck said.\n\n'We do,' cried the children. 'Awfully!'\n\n'Very good. I promised you that you shall see What you shall see, and\nyou shall hear What you shall hear, though It shall have happened three\nthousand year; but just now it seems to me that, unless you go back to\nthe house, people will be looking for you. I'll walk with you as far as\nthe gate.'\n\n'Will you be here when we come again?' they asked.\n\n'Surely, sure-ly,' said Puck. 'I've been here some time already. One\nminute first, please.'\n\nHe gave them each three leaves--one of Oak, one of Ash and one of Thorn.\n\n'Bite these,' said he. 'Otherwise you might be talking at home of what\nyou've seen and heard, and--if I know human beings--they'd send for the\ndoctor. Bite!'\n\nThey bit hard, and found themselves walking side by side to the lower\ngate. Their father was leaning over it.\n\n'And how did your play go?' he asked.\n\n'Oh, splendidly,' said Dan. 'Only afterwards, I think, we went to sleep.\nit was very hot and quiet. Don't you remember, Una?'\n\nUna shook her head and said nothing.\n\n'I see,' said her father.\n\n'Late--late in the evening Kilmeny came home,\nFor Kilmeny had been she could not tell where,\nAnd Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare.\n\nBut why are you chewing leaves at your time of life, daughter? For fun?'\n\n'No. It was for something, but I can't azactly remember,' said Una.\n\nAnd neither of them could till----\n\n\n\nA TREE SONG\n\n\nOf all the trees that grow so fair,\n  Old England to adorn,\nGreater are none beneath the Sun,\n  Than Oak, and Ash, and Thorn.\nSing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good Sirs\n  (All of a Midsummer morn)!\nSurely we sing no little thing,\n  In Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!\n\nOak of the Clay lived many a day,\n  Or ever AEneas began;\nAsh of the Loam was a lady at home,\n  When Brut was an outlaw man;\nThorn of the Down saw New Troy Town\n  (From which was London born);\nWitness hereby the ancientry\n  Of Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!\n\nYew that is old in churchyard mould,\n  He breedeth a mighty bow;\nAlder for shoes do wise men choose,\n  And beech for cups also.\nBut when ye have killed, and your bowl is spilled,\n  And your shoes are clean outworn,\nBack ye must speed for all that ye need,\n  To Oak and Ash and Thorn!\n\nEllum she hateth mankind, and waiteth\n  Till every gust be laid,\nTo drop a limb on the head of him\n  That anyway trusts her shade:\nBut whether a lad be sober or sad,\n  Or mellow with ale from the horn,\nHe will take no wrong when he lieth along\n  'Neath Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!\n\nOh, do not tell the Priest our plight,\n  Or he would call it a sin;\nBut--we have been out in the woods all night,\n  A-conjuring Summer in!\nAnd we bring you news by word of mouth--\n  Good news for cattle and corn--\nNow is the Sun come up from the South,\n  With Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!\n\nSing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good Sirs\n  (All of a Midsummer morn)!\nEngland shall bide till Judgement Tide,\n  By Oak and Ash and Thorn!\n\n\n\n\nYOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR\n\n\nThey were fishing, a few days later, in the bed of the brook that for\ncenturies had cut deep into the soft valley soil. The trees closing\noverhead made long tunnels through which the sunshine worked in blobs\nand patches. Down in the tunnels were bars of sand and gravel, old roots\nand trunks covered with moss or painted red by the irony water;\nfoxgloves growing lean and pale towards the light; clumps of fern and\nthirsty shy flowers who could not live away from moisture and shade. In\nthe pools you could see the wave thrown up by the trouts as they charged\nhither and yon, and the pools were joined to each other--except in flood\ntime, when all was one brown rush--by sheets of thin broken water that\npoured themselves chuckling round the darkness of the next bend.\n\nThis was one of the children's most secret hunting-grounds, and their\nparticular friend, old Hobden the hedger, had shown them how to use it.\nExcept for the click of a rod hitting a low willow, or a switch and\ntussle among the young ash-leaves as a line hung up for the minute,\nnobody in the hot pasture could have guessed what game was going on\namong the trouts below the banks.\n\n'We've got half-a-dozen,' said Dan, after a warm, wet hour. 'I vote we\ngo up to Stone Bay and try Long Pool.'\n\nUna nodded--most of her talk was by nods--and they crept from the gloom\nof the tunnels towards the tiny weir that turns the brook into the\nmill-stream. Here the banks are low and bare, and the glare of the\nafternoon sun on the Long Pool below the weir makes your eyes ache.\n\nWhen they were in the open they nearly fell down with astonishment. A\nhuge grey horse, whose tail-hairs crinkled the glassy water, was\ndrinking in the pool, and the ripples about his muzzle flashed like\nmelted gold. On his back sat an old, white-haired man dressed in a loose\nglimmery gown of chain-mail. He was bare-headed, and a nut-shaped iron\nhelmet hung at his saddle-bow. His reins were of red leather five or six\ninches deep, scalloped at the edges, and his high padded saddle with its\nred girths was held fore and aft by a red leather breastband and\ncrupper.\n\n'Look!' said Una, as though Dan were not staring his very eyes out.\n'It's like the picture in your room--\"Sir Isumbras at the Ford\".'\n\nThe rider turned towards them, and his thin, long face was just as sweet\nand gentle as that of the knight who carries the children in that\npicture.\n\n'They should be here now, Sir Richard,' said Puck's deep voice among the\nwillow-herb.\n\n'They are here,' the knight said, and he smiled at Dan with the string\nof trouts in his hand. 'There seems no great change in boys since mine\nfished this water.'\n\n'If your horse has drunk, we shall be more at ease in the Ring,' said\nPuck; and he nodded to the children as though he had never magicked away\ntheir memories a week before.\n\nThe great horse turned and hoisted himself into the pasture with a kick\nand a scramble that tore the clods down rattling.\n\n'Your pardon!' said Sir Richard to Dan. 'When these lands were mine, I\nnever loved that mounted men should cross the brook except by the paved\nford. But my Swallow here was thirsty, and I wished to meet you.'\n\n'We're very glad you've come, sir,' said Dan. 'It doesn't matter in the\nleast about the banks.'\n\nHe trotted across the pasture on the sword side of the mighty horse, and\nit was a mighty iron-handled sword that swung from Sir Richard's belt.\nUna walked behind with Puck. She remembered everything now.\n\n'I'm sorry about the Leaves,' he said, 'but it would never have done if\nyou had gone home and told, would it?'\n\n'I s'pose not,' Una answered. 'But you said that all the fair--People of\nthe Hills had left England.'\n\n'So they have; but I told you that you should come and go and look and\nknow, didn't I? The knight isn't a fairy. He's Sir Richard Dalyngridge,\na very old friend of mine. He came over with William the Conqueror, and\nhe wants to see you particularly.'\n\n'What for?' said Una.\n\n'On account of your great wisdom and learning,' Puck replied, without a\ntwinkle.\n\n'Us?' said Una. 'Why, I don't know my Nine Times--not to say it dodging,\nand Dan makes the most _awful_ mess of fractions. He can't mean _us_!'\n\n'Una!' Dan called back. 'Sir Richard says he is going to tell what\nhappened to Weland's sword. He's got it. Isn't it splendid?'\n\n'Nay--nay,' said Sir Richard, dismounting as they reached the Ring, in\nthe bend of the mill-stream bank. 'It is you that must tell me, for I\nhear the youngest child in our England today is as wise as our wisest\nclerk.' He slipped the bit out of Swallow's mouth, dropped the ruby-red\nreins over his head, and the wise horse moved off to graze.\n\nSir Richard (they noticed he limped a little) unslung his great sword.\n\n'That's it,' Dan whispered to Una.\n\n'This is the sword that Brother Hugh had from Wayland-Smith,' Sir\nRichard said. 'Once he gave it me, but I would not take it; but at the\nlast it became mine after such a fight as never christened man fought.\nSee!' He half drew it from its sheath and turned it before them. On\neither side just below the handle, where the Runic letters shivered as\nthough they were alive, were two deep gouges in the dull, deadly steel.\n'Now, what Thing made those?' said he. 'I know not, but you, perhaps,\ncan say.'\n\n'Tell them all the tale, Sir Richard,' said Puck. 'It concerns their\nland somewhat.'\n\n'Yes, from the very beginning,' Una pleaded, for the knight's good face\nand the smile on it more than ever reminded her of 'Sir Isumbras at the\nFord'.\n\nThey settled down to listen, Sir Richard bare-headed to the sunshine,\ndandling the sword in both hands, while the grey horse cropped outside\nthe Ring, and the helmet on the saddle-bow clinged softly each time he\njerked his head.\n\n'From the beginning, then,' Sir Richard said, 'since it concerns your\nland, I will tell the tale. When our Duke came out of Normandy to take\nhis England, great knights (have ye heard?) came and strove hard to\nserve the Duke, because he promised them lands here, and small knights\nfollowed the great ones. My folk in Normandy were poor; but a great\nknight, Engerrard of the Eagle--Engenulf De Aquila--who was kin to my\nfather, followed the Earl of Mortain, who followed William the Duke, and\nI followed De Aquila. Yes, with thirty men-at-arms out of my father's\nhouse and a new sword, I set out to conquer England three days after I\nwas made knight. I did not then know that England would conquer me. We\nwent up to Santlache with the rest--a very great host of us.'\n\n'Does that mean the Battle of Hastings--Ten Sixty-Six?' Una whispered,\nand Puck nodded, so as not to interrupt.\n\n'At Santlache, over the hill yonder'--he pointed south-eastward towards\nFairlight--'we found Harold's men. We fought. At the day's end they ran.\nMy men went with De Aquila's to chase and plunder, and in that chase\nEngerrard of the Eagle was slain, and his son Gilbert took his banner\nand his men forward. This I did not know till after, for Swallow here\nwas cut in the flank, so I stayed to wash the wound at a brook by a\nthorn. There a single Saxon cried out to me in French, and we fought\ntogether. I should have known his voice, but we fought together. For a\nlong time neither had any advantage, till by pure ill-fortune his foot\nslipped and his sword flew from his hand. Now I had but newly been made\nknight, and wished, above all, to be courteous and fameworthy, so I\nforbore to strike and bade him get his sword again. \"A plague on my\nsword,\" said he. \"It has lost me my first fight. You have spared my\nlife. Take my sword.\" He held it out to me, but as I stretched my hand\nthe sword groaned like a stricken man, and I leaped back crying,\n\"Sorcery!\"'\n\n[The children looked at the sword as though it might speak again.]\n\n'Suddenly a clump of Saxons ran out upon me and, seeing a Norman alone,\nwould have killed me, but my Saxon cried out that I was his prisoner,\nand beat them off. Thus, see you, he saved my life. He put me on my\nhorse and led me through the woods ten long miles to this valley.'\n\n'To here, d'you mean?' said Una.\n\n'To this very valley. We came in by the Lower Ford under the King's Hill\nyonder'--he pointed eastward where the valley widens.\n\n'And was that Saxon Hugh the novice?' Dan asked.\n\n'Yes, and more than that. He had been for three years at the monastery\nat Bec by Rouen, where'--Sir Richard chuckled--'the Abbot Herluin would\nnot suffer me to remain.'\n\n'Why wouldn't he?' said Dan.\n\n'Because I rode my horse into the refectory, when the scholars were at\nmeat, to show the Saxon boys we Normans were not afraid of an Abbot. It\nwas that very Saxon Hugh tempted me to do it, and we had not met since\nthat day. I thought I knew his voice even inside my helmet, and, for all\nthat our Lords fought, we each rejoiced we had not slain the other. He\nwalked by my side, and he told me how a Heathen God, as he believed, had\ngiven him his sword, but he said he had never heard it sing before. I\nremember I warned him to beware of sorcery and quick enchantments.' Sir\nRichard smiled to himself. 'I was very young--very young!\n\n'When we came to his house here we had almost forgotten that we had been\nat blows. It was near midnight, and the Great Hall was full of men and\nwomen waiting news. There I first saw his sister, the Lady AElueva, of\nwhom he had spoken to us in France. She cried out fiercely at me, and\nwould have had me hanged in that hour, but her brother said that I had\nspared his life--he said not how he saved mine from the Saxons--and that\nour Duke had won the day; and even while they wrangled over my poor\nbody, of a sudden he fell down in a swoon from his wounds.\n\n'\"This is _thy_ fault,\" said the Lady AElueva to me, and she kneeled\nabove him and called for wine and cloths.\n\n'\"If I had known,\" I answered, \"he should have ridden and I walked. But\nhe set me on my horse; he made no complaint; he walked beside me and\nspoke merrily throughout. I pray I have done him no harm.\"\n\n'\"Thou hast need to pray,\" she said, catching up her underlip. \"If he\ndies, thou shalt hang.\"\n\n'They bore off Hugh to his chamber; but three tall men of the house\nbound me and set me under the beam of the Great Hall with a rope round\nmy neck. The end of the rope they flung over the beam, and they sat them\ndown by the fire to wait word whether Hugh lived or died. They cracked\nnuts with their knife-hilts the while.'\n\n'And how did you feel?' said Dan.\n\n'Very weary; but I did heartily pray for my schoolmate Hugh his health.\nAbout noon I heard horses in the valley, and the three men loosed my\nropes and fled out, and De Aquila's men rode up. Gilbert de Aquila came\nwith them, for it was his boast that, like his father, he forgot no man\nthat served him. He was little, like his father, but terrible, with a\nnose like an eagle's nose and yellow eyes like an eagle. He rode tall\nwarhorses--roans, which he bred himself--and he could never abide to be\nhelped into the saddle. He saw the rope hanging from the beam and\nlaughed, and his men laughed, for I was too stiff to rise.\n\n'\"This is poor entertainment for a Norman knight,\" he said, \"but, such\nas it is, let us be grateful. Show me, boy, to whom thou owest most, and\nwe will pay them out of hand.\"'\n\n'What did he mean? To kill 'em?' said Dan.\n\n'Assuredly. But I looked at the Lady AElueva where she stood among her\nmaids, and her brother beside her. De Aquila's men had driven them all\ninto the Great Hall.'\n\n'Was she pretty?' said Una.\n\n'In all my long life I have never seen woman fit to strew rushes before\nmy Lady AElueva,' the knight replied, quite simply and quietly. 'As I\nlooked at her I thought I might save her and her house by a jest.\n\n'\"Seeing that I came somewhat hastily and without warning,\" said I to De\nAquila, \"I have no fault to find with the courtesy that these Saxons\nhave shown me.\" But my voice shook. It is--it was not good to jest with\nthat little man.\n\n'All were silent awhile, till De Aquila laughed. \"Look, men--a miracle,\"\nsaid he. \"The fight is scarce sped, my father is not yet buried, and\nhere we find our youngest knight already set down in his Manor, while\nhis Saxons--ye can see it in their fat faces--have paid him homage and\nservice! By the Saints,\" he said, rubbing his nose, \"I never thought\nEngland would be so easy won! Surely I can do no less than give the lad\nwhat he has taken. This Manor shall be thine, boy,\" he said, \"till I\ncome again, or till thou art slain. Now, mount, men, and ride. We follow\nour Duke into Kent to make him King of England.\"\n\n'He drew me with him to the door while they brought his horse--a lean\nroan, taller than my Swallow here, but not so well girthed.\n\n'\"Hark to me,\" he said, fretting with his great war-gloves. \"I have\ngiven thee this Manor, which is a Saxon hornets' nest, and I think thou\nwilt be slain in a month--as my father was slain. Yet if thou canst keep\nthe roof on the hall, the thatch on the barn, and the plough in the\nfurrow till I come back, thou shalt hold the Manor from me; for the Duke\nhas promised our Earl Mortain all the lands by Pevensey, and Mortain\nwill give me of them what he would have given my father. God knows if\nthou or I shall live till England is won; but remember, boy, that here\nand now fighting is foolishness and\"--he reached for the reins--\"craft\nand cunning is all.\"\n\n'\"Alas, I have no cunning,\" said I.\n\n'\"Not yet,\" said he, hopping abroad, foot in stirrup, and poking his\nhorse in the belly with his toe. \"Not yet, but I think thou hast a good\nteacher. Farewell! Hold the Manor and live. Lose the Manor and hang,\" he\nsaid, and spurred out, his shield-straps squeaking behind him.\n\n'So, children, here was I, little more than a boy, and Santlache fight\nnot two days old, left alone with my thirty men-at-arms, in a land I\nknew not, among a people whose tongue I could not speak, to hold down\nthe land which I had taken from them.'\n\n'And that was here at home?' said Una.\n\n'Yes, here. See! From the Upper Ford, Weland's Ford, to the Lower Ford,\nby the Belle Allee, west and east it ran half a league. From the Beacon\nof Brunanburgh behind us here, south and north it ran a full league--and\nall the woods were full of broken men from Santlache, Saxon thieves,\nNorman plunderers, robbers, and deer-stealers. A hornets' nest indeed!\n\n'When De Aquila had gone, Hugh would have thanked me for saving their\nlives; but the Lady AElueva said that I had done it only for the sake of\nreceiving the Manor.\n\n'\"How could I know that De Aquila would give it me?\" I said. \"If I had\ntold him I had spent my night in your halter he would have burned the\nplace twice over by now.\"\n\n'\"If any man had put _my_ neck in a rope,\" she said, \"I would have seen\nhis house burned thrice over before _I_ would have made terms.\"\n\n'\"But it was a woman,\" I said; and I laughed, and she wept and said that\nI mocked her in her captivity.\n\n'\"Lady,\" said I, \"there is no captive in this valley except one, and he\nis not a Saxon.\"\n\n'At this she cried that I was a Norman thief, who came with false, sweet\nwords, having intended from the first to turn her out in the fields to\nbeg her bread. Into the fields! She had never seen the face of war!\n\n'I was angry, and answered, \"This much at least I can disprove, for I\nswear\"--and on my sword-hilt I swore it in that place--\"I swear I will\nnever set foot in the Great Hall till the Lady AElueva herself shall\nsummon me there.\"\n\n'She went away, saying nothing, and I walked out, and Hugh limped after\nme, whistling dolorously (that is a custom of the English), and we came\nupon the three Saxons that had bound me. They were now bound by my\nmen-at-arms, and behind them stood some fifty stark and sullen churls of\nthe House and the Manor, waiting to see what should fall. We heard De\nAquila's trumpets blow thin through the woods Kentward.\n\n'\"Shall we hang these?\" said my men.\n\n'\"Then my churls will fight,\" said Hugh, beneath his breath; but I bade\nhim ask the three what mercy they hoped for.\n\n'\"None,\" said they all. \"She bade us hang thee if our master died. And\nwe would have hanged thee. There is no more to it.\"\n\n'As I stood doubting, a woman ran down from the oak wood above the\nKing's Hill yonder, and cried out that some Normans were driving off the\nswine there.\n\n'\"Norman or Saxon,\" said I, \"we must beat them back, or they will rob us\nevery day. Out at them with any arms ye have!\" So I loosed those three\ncarles and we ran together, my men-at-arms and the Saxons with bills and\naxes which they had hidden in the thatch of their huts, and Hugh led\nthem. Half-way up the King's Hill we found a false fellow from\nPicardy--a sutler that sold wine in the Duke's camp--with a dead\nknight's shield on his arm, a stolen horse under him, and some ten or\ntwelve wastrels at his tail, all cutting and slashing at the pigs. We\nbeat them off, and saved our pork. One hundred and seventy pigs we saved\nin that great battle.' Sir Richard laughed.\n\n'That, then, was our first work together, and I bade Hugh tell his folk\nthat so would I deal with any man, knight or churl, Norman or Saxon, who\nstole as much as one egg from our valley. Said he to me, riding home:\n\"Thou hast gone far to conquer England this evening.\" I answered:\n\"England must be thine and mine, then. Help me, Hugh, to deal aright\nwith these people. Make them to know that if they slay me De Aquila will\nsurely send to slay them, and he will put a worse man in my place.\"\n\"That may well be true,\" said he, and gave me his hand. \"Better the\ndevil we know than the devil we know not, till we can pack you Normans\nhome.\" And so, too, said his Saxons; and they laughed as we drove the\npigs downhill. But I think some of them, even then, began not to hate\nme.'\n\n'I like Brother Hugh,' said Una, softly.\n\n'Beyond question he was the most perfect, courteous, valiant, tender,\nand wise knight that ever drew breath,' said Sir Richard, caressing the\nsword. 'He hung up his sword--this sword--on the wall of the Great Hall,\nbecause he said it was fairly mine, and never he took it down till De\nAquila returned, as I shall presently show. For three months his men and\nmine guarded the valley, till all robbers and nightwalkers learned there\nwas nothing to get from us save hard tack and a hanging. Side by side we\nfought against all who came--thrice a week sometimes we fought--against\nthieves and landless knights looking for good manors. Then we were in\nsome peace, and I made shift by Hugh's help to govern the valley--for\nall this valley of yours was my Manor--as a knight should. I kept the\nroof on the hall and the thatch on the barn, but ... the English are a\nbold people. His Saxons would laugh and jest with Hugh, and Hugh with\nthem, and--this was marvellous to me--if even the meanest of them said\nthat such and such a thing was the Custom of the Manor, then straightway\nwould Hugh and such old men of the Manor as might be near forsake\neverything else to debate the matter--I have seen them stop the Mill\nwith the corn half ground--and if the custom or usage were proven to be\nas it was said, why, that was the end of it, even though it were flat\nagainst Hugh, his wish and command. Wonderful!'\n\n'Aye,' said Puck, breaking in for the first time. 'The Custom of Old\nEngland was here before your Norman knights came, and it outlasted them,\nthough they fought against it cruel.'\n\n'Not I,' said Sir Richard. 'I let the Saxons go their stubborn way, but\nwhen my own men-at-arms, Normans not six months in England, stood up and\ntold me what was the custom of the country, then I was angry. Ah, good\ndays! Ah, wonderful people! And I loved them all.'\n\nThe knight lifted his arms as though he would hug the whole dear valley,\nand Swallow, hearing the chink of his chain-mail, looked up and whinnied\nsoftly.\n\n'At last,' he went on, 'after a year of striving and contriving and some\nlittle driving, De Aquila came to the valley, alone and without warning.\nI saw him first at the Lower Ford, with a swineherd's brat on his\nsaddle-bow.\n\n'\"There is no need for thee to give any account of thy stewardship,\"\nsaid he. \"I have it all from the child here.\" And he told me how the\nyoung thing had stopped his tall horse at the Ford, by waving of a\nbranch, and crying that the way was barred. \"And if one bold, bare babe\nbe enough to guard the Ford in these days, thou hast done well,\" said\nhe, and puffed and wiped his head.\n\n'He pinched the child's cheek, and looked at our cattle in the flat by\nthe river.\n\n'\"Both fat,\" said he, rubbing his nose. \"This is craft and cunning such\nas I love. What did I tell thee when I rode away, boy?\"\n\n'\"Hold the Manor or hang,\" said I. I had never forgotten it.\n\n'\"True. And thou hast held.\" He clambered from his saddle and with his\nsword's point cut out a turf from the bank and gave it me where I\nkneeled.'\n\nDan looked at Una, and Una looked at Dan.\n\n'That's seizin,' said Puck, in a whisper.\n\n'\"Now thou art lawfully seized of the Manor, Sir Richard,\" said he--'twas\nthe first time he ever called me that--\"thou and thy heirs for ever. This\nmust serve till the King's clerks write out thy title on a parchment.\nEngland is all ours--if we can hold it.\"\n\n'\"What service shall I pay?\" I asked, and I remember I was proud beyond\nwords.\n\n'\"Knight's fee, boy, knight's fee!\" said he, hopping round his horse on\none foot. (Have I said he was little, and could not endure to be helped\nto his saddle?) \"Six mounted men or twelve archers thou shalt send me\nwhenever I call for them, and--where got you that corn?\" said he, for it\nwas near harvest, and our corn stood well. \"I have never seen such\nbright straw. Send me three bags of the same seed yearly, and\nfurthermore, in memory of our last meeting--with the rope round thy\nneck--entertain me and my men for two days of each year in the Great\nHall of thy Manor.\"\n\n'\"Alas!\" said I, \"then my Manor is already forfeit. I am under vow not\nto enter the Great Hall.\" And I told him what I had sworn to the Lady\nAElueva.'\n\n'And hadn't you ever been into the house since?' said Una.\n\n'Never,' Sir Richard answered, smiling. 'I had made me a little hut of\nwood up the hill, and there I did justice and slept ... De Aquila\nwheeled aside, and his shield shook on his back. \"No matter, boy,\" said\nhe. \"I will remit the homage for a year.\"'\n\n'He meant Sir Richard needn't give him dinner there the first year,'\nPuck explained.\n\n'De Aquila stayed with me in the hut, and Hugh, who could read and write\nand cast accounts, showed him the Roll of the Manor, in which were\nwritten all the names of our fields and men, and he asked a thousand\nquestions touching the land, the timber, the grazing, the mill, and the\nfish-ponds, and the worth of every man in the valley. But never he named\nthe Lady AElueva's name, nor went he near the Great Hall. By night he\ndrank with us in the hut. Yes, he sat on the straw like an eagle ruffled\nin her feathers, his yellow eyes rolling above the cup, and he pounced\nin his talk like an eagle, swooping from one thing to another, but\nalways binding fast. Yes; he would lie still awhile, and then rustle in\nthe straw, and speak sometimes as though he were King William himself,\nand anon he would speak in parables and tales, and if at once we saw not\nhis meaning he would yerk us in the ribs with his scabbarded sword.\n\n'\"Look you, boys,\" said he, \"I am born out of my due time. Five hundred\nyears ago I would have made all England such an England as neither Dane,\nSaxon, nor Norman should have conquered. Five hundred years hence I\nshould have been such a counsellor to Kings as the world hath never\ndreamed of. 'Tis all here,\" said he, tapping his big head, \"but it hath\nno play in this black age. Now Hugh here is a better man than thou art,\nRichard.\" He had made his voice harsh and croaking, like a raven's.\n\n'\"Truth,\" said I. \"But for Hugh, his help and patience and\nlong-suffering, I could never have kept the Manor.\"\n\n'\"Nor thy life either,\" said De Aquila. \"Hugh has saved thee not once,\nbut a hundred times. Be still, Hugh!\" he said. \"Dost thou know, Richard,\nwhy Hugh slept, and why he still sleeps, among thy Norman men-at-arms?\"\n\n'\"To be near me,\" said I, for I thought this was truth.\n\n'\"Fool!\" said De Aquila. \"It is because his Saxons have begged him to\nrise against thee, and to sweep every Norman out of the valley. No\nmatter how I know. It is truth. Therefore Hugh hath made himself an\nhostage for thy life, well knowing that if any harm befell thee from his\nSaxons thy Normans would slay him without remedy. And this his Saxons\nknow. Is it true, Hugh?\"\n\n'\"In some sort,\" said Hugh shamefacedly; \"at least, it was true half a\nyear ago. My Saxons would not harm Richard now. I think they know\nhim--but I judged it best to make sure.\"\n\n'Look, children, what that man had done--and I had never guessed it!\nNight after night had he lain down among my men-at-arms, knowing that if\none Saxon had lifted knife against me, his life would have answered for\nmine.\n\n'\"Yes,\" said De Aquila. \"And he is a swordless man.\" He pointed to\nHugh's belt, for Hugh had put away his sword--did I tell you?--the day\nafter it flew from his hand at Santlache. He carried only the short\nknife and the long-bow. \"Swordless and landless art thou, Hugh; and they\ncall thee kin to Earl Godwin.\" (Hugh was indeed of Godwin's blood.) \"The\nManor that was thine is given to this boy and to his children for ever.\nSit up and beg, for he can turn thee out like a dog, Hugh.\"\n\n'Hugh said nothing, but I heard his teeth grind, and I bade De Aquila,\nmy own overlord, hold his peace, or I would stuff his words down his\nthroat. Then De Aquila laughed till the tears ran down his face.\n\n'\"I warned the King,\" said he, \"what would come of giving England to us\nNorman thieves. Here art thou, Richard, less than two days confirmed in\nthy Manor, and already thou hast risen against thy overlord. What shall\nwe do to him, _Sir_ Hugh?\"\n\n'\"I am a swordless man,\" said Hugh. \"Do not jest with me,\" and he laid\nhis head on his knees and groaned.\n\n'\"The greater fool thou,\" said De Aquila, and all his voice changed;\n\"for I have given thee the Manor of Dallington up the hill this\nhalf-hour since,\" and he yerked at Hugh with his scabbard across the\nstraw.\n\n'\"To me?\" said Hugh. \"I am a Saxon, and, except that I love Richard\nhere, I have not sworn fealty to any Norman.\"\n\n'\"In God's good time, which because of my sins I shall not live to see,\nthere will be neither Saxon nor Norman in England,\" said De Aquila. \"If\nI know men, thou art more faithful unsworn than a score of Normans I\ncould name. Take Dallington, and join Sir Richard to fight me tomorrow,\nif it please thee!\"\n\n'\"Nay,\" said Hugh. \"I am no child. Where I take a gift, there I render\nservice\"; and he put his hands between De Aquila's, and swore to be\nfaithful, and, as I remember, I kissed him, and De Aquila kissed us\nboth.\n\n'We sat afterwards outside the hut while the sun rose, and De Aquila\nmarked our churls going to their work in the fields, and talked of holy\nthings, and how we should govern our Manors in time to come, and of\nhunting and of horse-breeding, and of the King's wisdom and unwisdom;\nfor he spoke to us as though we were in all sorts now his brothers. Anon\na churl stole up to me--he was one of the three I had not hanged a year\nago--and he bellowed--which is the Saxon for whispering--that the Lady\nAElueva would speak to me at the Great House. She walked abroad daily in\nthe Manor, and it was her custom to send me word whither she went, that\nI might set an archer or two behind and in front to guard her. Very\noften I myself lay up in the woods and watched on her also.\n\n'I went swiftly, and as I passed the great door it opened from within,\nand there stood my Lady AElueva, and she said to me: \"Sir Richard, will\nit please you enter your Great Hall?\" Then she wept, but we were alone.'\n\nThe knight was silent for a long time, his face turned across the\nvalley, smiling.\n\n'Oh, well done!' said Una, and clapped her hands very softly. 'She was\nsorry, and she said so.'\n\n'Aye, she was sorry, and she said so,' said Sir Richard, coming back\nwith a little start. 'Very soon--but _he_ said it was two full hours\nlater--De Aquila rode to the door, with his shield new scoured (Hugh had\ncleansed it), and demanded entertainment, and called me a false knight,\nthat would starve his overlord to death. Then Hugh cried out that no man\nshould work in the valley that day, and our Saxons blew horns, and set\nabout feasting and drinking, and running of races, and dancing and\nsinging; and De Aquila climbed upon a horse-block and spoke to them in\nwhat he swore was good Saxon, but no man understood it. At night we\nfeasted in the Great Hall, and when the harpers and the singers were\ngone we four sat late at the high table. As I remember, it was a warm\nnight with a full moon, and De Aquila bade Hugh take down his sword from\nthe wall again, for the honour of the Manor of Dallington, and Hugh took\nit gladly enough. Dust lay on the hilt, for I saw him blow it off.\n\n'She and I sat talking a little apart, and at first we thought the\nharpers had come back, for the Great Hall was filled with a rushing\nnoise of music. De Aquila leaped up; but there was only the moonlight\nfretty on the floor.\n\n'\"Hearken!\" said Hugh. \"It is my sword,\" and as he belted it on the\nmusic ceased.\n\n'\"Over Gods, forbid that I should ever belt blade like that,\" said De\nAquila. \"What does it foretell?\"\n\n'\"The Gods that made it may know. Last time it spoke was at Hastings,\nwhen I lost all my lands. Belike it sings now that I have new lands and\nam a man again,\" said Hugh.\n\n'He loosed the blade a little and drove it back happily into the sheath,\nand the sword answered him low and crooningly, as--as a woman would\nspeak to a man, her head on his shoulder.\n\n'Now that was the second time in all my life I heard this Sword\nsing.'...\n\n\n\n'Look!' said Una. 'There's Mother coming down the Long Slip. What will\nshe say to Sir Richard? She can't help seeing him.'\n\n'And Puck can't magic us this time,' said Dan.\n\n'Are you sure?' said Puck; and he leaned forward and whispered to Sir\nRichard, who, smiling, bowed his head.\n\n'But what befell the sword and my brother Hugh I will tell on another\ntime,' said he, rising. 'Ohe, Swallow!'\n\nThe great horse cantered up from the far end of the meadow, close to\nMother.\n\nThey heard Mother say: 'Children, Gleason's old horse has broken into\nthe meadow again. Where did he get through?'\n\n'Just below Stone Bay,' said Dan. 'He tore down simple flobs of the\nbank! We noticed it just now. And we've caught no end of fish. We've\nbeen at it all the afternoon.'\n\nAnd they honestly believed that they had. They never noticed the Oak,\nAsh and Thorn leaves that Puck had slyly thrown into their laps.\n\n\n\nSIR RICHARD'S SONG\n\n\nI followed my Duke ere I was a lover,\n    To take from England fief and fee;\nBut now this game is the other way over--\n    But now England hath taken me!\n\nI had my horse, my shield and banner,\n    And a boy's heart, so whole and free;\nBut now I sing in another manner--\n    But now England hath taken me!\n\nAs for my Father in his tower,\n    Asking news of my ship at sea;\nHe will remember his own hour--\n    Tell him England hath taken me!\n\nAs for my Mother in her bower,\n    That rules my Father so cunningly;\nShe will remember a maiden's power--\n    Tell her England hath taken me!\n\nAs for my Brother in Rouen city,\n    A nimble and naughty page is he;\nBut he will come to suffer and pity--\n    Tell him England hath taken me!\n\nAs for my little Sister waiting\n    In the pleasant orchards of Normandie;\nTell her youth is the time of mating--\n    Tell her England hath taken me!\n\nAs for my Comrades in camp and highway,\n    That lift their eyebrows scornfully;\nTell them their way is not my way--\n    Tell them England hath taken me!\n\nKings and Princes and Barons famed,\n    Knights and Captains in your degree;\nHear me a little before I am blamed--\n    Seeing England hath taken me!\n\nHowso great man's strength be reckoned,\n    There are two things he cannot flee;\nLove is the first, and Death is the second--\n    And Love, in England, hath taken me!\n\n\n\n\nTHE KNIGHTS OF THE JOYOUS VENTURE\n\n\n\nHARP SONG OF THE DANE WOMEN\n\n\nWhat is a woman that you forsake her,\nAnd the hearth-fire and the home-acre,\nTo go with the old grey Widow-maker?\n\nShe has no house to lay a guest in--\nBut one chill bed for all to rest in,\nThat the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in.\n\nShe has no strong white arms to fold you,\nBut the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you\nBound on the rocks where the tide has rolled you.\n\nYet, when the signs of summer thicken,\nAnd the ice breaks, and the birch-buds quicken,\nYearly you turn from our side, and sicken--\n\nSicken again for the shouts and the slaughters,--\nYou steal away to the lapping waters,\nAnd look at your ship in her winter quarters.\n\nYou forget our mirth, and talk at the tables,\nThe kine in the shed and the horse in the stables--\nTo pitch her sides and go over her cables!\n\nThen you drive out where the storm-clouds swallow:\nAnd the sound of your oar-blades falling hollow\nIs all we have left through the months to follow.\n\nAh, what is a Woman that you forsake her,\nAnd the hearth-fire and the home-acre,\nTo go with the old grey Widow-maker?\n\n\n\nIt was too hot to run about in the open, so Dan asked their friend, old\nHobden, to take their own dinghy from the pond and put her on the brook\nat the bottom of the garden. Her painted name was the _Daisy_, but for\nexploring expeditions she was the _Golden Hind_ or the _Long Serpent_,\nor some such suitable name. Dan hiked and howked with a boat-hook (the\nbrook was too narrow for sculls), and Una punted with a piece of\nhop-pole. When they came to a very shallow place (the _Golden Hind_ drew\nquite three inches of water) they disembarked and scuffled her over the\ngravel by her tow-rope, and when they reached the overgrown banks beyond\nthe garden they pulled themselves up stream by the low branches.\n\nThat day they intended to discover the North Cape like 'Othere, the old\nsea-captain', in the book of verses which Una had brought with her; but\non account of the heat they changed it to a voyage up the Amazon and the\nsources of the Nile. Even on the shaded water the air was hot and heavy\nwith drowsy scents, while outside, through breaks in the trees, the\nsunshine burned the pasture like fire. The kingfisher was asleep on his\nwatching-branch, and the blackbirds scarcely took the trouble to dive\ninto the next bush. Dragonflies wheeling and clashing were the only\nthings at work, except the moorhens and a big Red Admiral, who flapped\ndown out of the sunshine for a drink.\n\nWhen they reached Otter Pool the _Golden Hind_ grounded comfortably on a\nshallow, and they lay beneath a roof of close green, watching the water\ntrickle over the flood-gates down the mossy brick chute from the\nmill-stream to the brook. A big trout--the children knew him\nwell--rolled head and shoulders at some fly that sailed round the bend,\nwhile, once in just so often, the brook rose a fraction of an inch\nagainst all the wet pebbles, and they watched the slow draw and shiver\nof a breath of air through the tree-tops. Then the little voices of the\nslipping water began again.\n\n'It's like the shadows talking, isn't it?' said Una. She had given up\ntrying to read. Dan lay over the bows, trailing his hands in the\ncurrent. They heard feet on the gravel-bar that runs half across the\npool and saw Sir Richard Dalyngridge standing over them.\n\n'Was yours a dangerous voyage?' he asked, smiling.\n\n'She bumped a lot, sir,' said Dan. 'There's hardly any water this\nsummer.'\n\n'Ah, the brook was deeper and wider when my children played at Danish\npirates. Are you pirate-folk?'\n\n'Oh no. We gave up being pirates years ago,' explained Una. 'We're\nnearly always explorers now. Sailing round the world, you know.'\n\n'Round?' said Sir Richard. He sat him in the comfortable crotch of an\nold ash-root on the bank. 'How can it be round?'\n\n'Wasn't it in your books?' Dan suggested. He had been doing geography at\nhis last lesson.\n\n'I can neither write nor read,' he replied. 'Canst _thou_ read, child?'\n\n'Yes,' said Dan, 'barring the very long words.'\n\n'Wonderful! Read to me, that I may hear for myself.'\n\nDan flushed, but opened the book and began--gabbling a little--at 'The\nDiscoverer of the North Cape.'\n\n'Othere, the old sea-captain,\nWho dwelt in Helgoland,\nTo King Alfred, the lover of truth,\nBrought a snow-white walrus tooth,\nThat he held in his brown right hand.'\n\n'But--but--this I know! This is an old song! This I have heard sung!\nThis is a miracle,' Sir Richard interrupted. 'Nay, do not stop!' He\nleaned forward, and the shadows of the leaves slipped and slid upon his\nchain-mail.\n\n'\"I ploughed the land with horses,\nBut my heart was ill at ease,\nFor the old sea-faring men\nCame to me now and then\nWith their Sagas of the Seas.\"'\n\nHis hand fell on the hilt of the great sword. 'This is truth,' he cried,\n'for so did it happen to me,' and he beat time delightedly to the tramp\nof verse after verse.\n\n'\"And now the land,\" said Othere,\n\"Bent southward suddenly,\nAnd I followed the curving shore,\nAnd ever southward bore\nInto a nameless sea.\"'\n\n'A nameless sea!' he repeated. 'So did I--so did Hugh and I.'\n\n'Where did you go? Tell us,' said Una.\n\n'Wait. Let me hear all first.' So Dan read to the poem's very end.\n\n'Good,' said the knight. 'That is Othere's tale--even as I have heard\nthe men in the Dane ships sing it. Not in those same valiant words, but\nsomething like to them.'\n\n'Have you ever explored North?' Dan shut the book.\n\n'Nay. My venture was South. Farther South than any man has fared, Hugh\nand I went down with Witta and his heathen.' He jerked the tall sword\nforward, and leaned on it with both hands; but his eyes looked long past\nthem.\n\n'I thought you always lived here,' said Una, timidly.\n\n'Yes; while my Lady AElueva lived. But she died. She died. Then, my\neldest son being a man, I asked De Aquila's leave that he should hold\nthe Manor while I went on some journey or pilgrimage--to forget. De\nAquila, whom the Second William had made Warden of Pevensey in Earl\nMortain's place, was very old then, but still he rode his tall, roan\nhorses, and in the saddle he looked like a little white falcon. When\nHugh, at Dallington, over yonder, heard what I did, he sent for my\nsecond son, whom being unmarried he had ever looked upon as his own\nchild, and, by De Aquila's leave, gave him the Manor of Dallington to\nhold till he should return. Then Hugh came with me.'\n\n'When did this happen?' said Dan.\n\n'That I can answer to the very day, for as we rode with De Aquila by\nPevensey--have I said that he was Lord of Pevensey and of the Honour of\nthe Eagle?--to the Bordeaux ship that fetched him his wines yearly out\nof France, a Marsh man ran to us crying that he had seen a great black\ngoat which bore on his back the body of the King, and that the goat had\nspoken to him. On that same day Red William our King, the Conqueror's\nson, died of a secret arrow while he hunted in a forest. \"This is a\ncross matter,\" said De Aquila, \"to meet on the threshold of a journey.\nIf Red William be dead I may have to fight for my lands. Wait a little.\"\n\n'My Lady being dead, I cared nothing for signs and omens, nor Hugh\neither. We took that wine-ship to go to Bordeaux; but the wind failed\nwhile we were yet in sight of Pevensey, a thick mist hid us, and we\ndrifted with the tide along the cliffs to the west. Our company was, for\nthe most part, merchants returning to France, and we were laden with\nwool and there were three couple of tall hunting-dogs chained to the\nrail. Their master was a knight of Artois. His name I never learned, but\nhis shield bore gold pieces on a red ground, and he limped, much as I\ndo, from a wound which he had got in his youth at Mantes siege. He\nserved the Duke of Burgundy against the Moors in Spain, and was\nreturning to that war with his dogs. He sang us strange Moorish songs\nthat first night, and half persuaded us to go with him. I was on\npilgrimage to forget--which is what no pilgrimage brings. I think I\nwould have gone, but ...\n\n'Look you how the life and fortune of man changes! Towards morning a\nDane ship, rowing silently, struck against us in the mist, and while we\nrolled hither and yon Hugh, leaning over the rail, fell outboard. I\nleaped after him, and we two tumbled aboard the Dane, and were caught\nand bound ere we could rise. Our own ship was swallowed up in the mist.\nI judge the Knight of the Gold Pieces muzzled his dogs with his cloak,\nlest they should give tongue and betray the merchants, for I heard their\nbaying suddenly stop.\n\n'We lay bound among the benches till morning, when the Danes dragged us\nto the high deck by the steering-place, and their captain--Witta, he was\ncalled--turned us over with his foot. Bracelets of gold from elbow to\narmpit he wore, and his red hair was long as a woman's, and came down in\nplaited locks on his shoulder. He was stout, with bowed legs and long\narms. He spoiled us of all we had, but when he laid hand on Hugh's sword\nand saw the runes on the blade hastily he thrust it back. Yet his\ncovetousness overcame him and he tried again and again, and the third\ntime the Sword sang loud and angrily, so that the rowers leaned on their\noars to listen. Here they all spoke together, screaming like gulls, and\na Yellow Man, such as I have never seen, came to the high deck and cut\nour bonds. He was yellow--not from sickness, but by nature--yellow as\nhoney, and his eyes stood endwise in his head.'\n\n'How do you mean?' said Una, her chin on her hand.\n\n'Thus,' said Sir Richard. He put a finger to the corner of each eye, and\npushed it up till his eyes narrowed to slits.\n\n'Why, you look just like a Chinaman!' cried Dan. 'Was the man a\nChinaman?'\n\n'I know not what that may be. Witta had found him half dead among ice on\nthe shores of Muscovy. _We_ thought he was a devil. He crawled before us\nand brought food in a silver dish which these sea-wolves had robbed from\nsome rich abbey, and Witta with his own hands gave us wine. He spoke a\nlittle in French, a little in South Saxon, and much in the Northman's\ntongue. We asked him to set us ashore, promising to pay him better\nransom than he would get price if he sold us to the Moors--as once\nbefell a knight of my acquaintance sailing from Flushing.\n\n'\"Not by my father Guthrum's head,\" said he. \"The Gods sent ye into my\nship for a luck-offering.\"\n\n'At this I quaked, for I knew it was still the Danes' custom to\nsacrifice captives to their Gods for fair weather.\n\n'\"A plague on thy four long bones!\" said Hugh. \"What profit canst thou\nmake of poor old pilgrims that can neither work nor fight?\"\n\n'\"Gods forbid I should fight against thee, poor Pilgrim with the Singing\nSword,\" said he. \"Come with us and be poor no more. Thy teeth are far\napart, which is a sure sign thou wilt travel and grow rich.\"\n\n'\"What if we will not come?\" said Hugh.\n\n'\"Swim to England or France,\" said Witta. \"We are midway between the\ntwo. Unless ye choose to drown yourselves no hair of your head will be\nharmed here aboard. We think ye bring us luck, and I myself know the\nrunes on that Sword are good.\" He turned and bade them hoist sail.\n\n'Hereafter all made way for us as we walked about the ship, and the ship\nwas full of wonders.'\n\n'What was she like?' said Dan.\n\n'Long, low, and narrow, bearing one mast with a red sail, and rowed by\nfifteen oars a-side,' the knight answered. 'At her bows was a deck under\nwhich men might lie, and at her stern another shut off by a painted door\nfrom the rowers' benches. Here Hugh and I slept, with Witta and the\nYellow Man, upon tapestries as soft as wool. I remember'--he laughed to\nhimself--'when first we entered there a loud voice cried, \"Out swords!\nOut swords! Kill, kill!\" Seeing us start Witta laughed, and showed us it\nwas but a great-beaked grey bird with a red tail. He sat her on his\nshoulder, and she called for bread and wine hoarsely, and prayed him to\nkiss her. Yet she was no more than a silly bird. But--ye knew this?' He\nlooked at their smiling faces.\n\n'We weren't laughing at you,' said Una. 'That must have been a parrot.\nIt's just what Pollies do.'\n\n'So we learned later. But here is another marvel. The Yellow Man, whose\nname was Kitai, had with him a brown box. In the box was a blue bowl\nwith red marks upon the rim, and within the bowl, hanging from a fine\nthread, was a piece of iron no thicker than that grass stem, and as\nlong, maybe, as my spur, but straight. In this iron, said Witta, abode\nan Evil Spirit which Kitai, the Yellow Man, had brought by Art Magic out\nof his own country that lay three years' journey southward. The Evil\nSpirit strove day and night to return to his country, and therefore,\nlook you, the iron needle pointed continually to the South.'\n\n'South?' said Dan suddenly, and put his hand into his pocket.\n\n'With my own eyes I saw it. Every day and all day long, though the ship\nrolled, though the sun and the moon and the stars were hid, this blind\nSpirit in the iron knew whither it would go, and strained to the South.\nWitta called it the Wise Iron, because it showed him his way across the\nunknowable seas.' Again Sir Richard looked keenly at the children. 'How\nthink ye? Was it sorcery?'\n\n'Was it anything like this?' Dan fished out his old brass\npocket-compass, that generally lived with his knife and key-ring. 'The\nglass has got cracked, but the needle waggles all right, sir.'\n\nThe knight drew a long breath of wonder. 'Yes, yes! The Wise Iron shook\nand swung in just this fashion. Now it is still. Now it points to the\nSouth.'\n\n'North,' said Dan.\n\n'Nay, South! There is the South,' said Sir Richard. Then they both\nlaughed, for naturally when one end of a straight compass-needle points\nto the North, the other must point to the South.\n\n'Te,' said Sir Richard, clicking his tongue. 'There can be no sorcery if\na child carries it. Wherefore does it point South--or North?'\n\n'Father says that nobody knows,' said Una.\n\nSir Richard looked relieved. 'Then it may still be magic. It was magic\nto _us_. And so we voyaged. When the wind served we hoisted sail, and\nlay all up along the windward rail, our shields on our backs to break\nthe spray. When it failed, they rowed with long oars; the Yellow Man sat\nby the Wise Iron, and Witta steered. At first I feared the great\nwhite-flowering waves, but as I saw how wisely Witta led his ship among\nthem I grew bolder. Hugh liked it well from the first. My skill is not\nupon the water; and rocks and whirlpools such as we saw by the West\nIsles of France, where an oar caught on a rock and broke, are much\nagainst my stomach. We sailed South across a stormy sea, where by\nmoonlight, between clouds, we saw a Flanders ship roll clean over and\nsink. Again, though Hugh laboured with Witta all night, I lay under the\ndeck with the Talking Bird, and cared not whether I lived or died. There\nis a sickness of the sea which for three days is pure death! When we\nnext saw land Witta said it was Spain, and we stood out to sea. That\ncoast was full of ships busy in the Duke's war against the Moors, and we\nfeared to be hanged by the Duke's men or sold into slavery by the Moors.\nSo we put into a small harbour which Witta knew. At night men came down\nwith loaded mules, and Witta exchanged amber out of the North against\nlittle wedges of iron and packets of beads in earthen pots. The pots he\nput under the decks, and the wedges of iron he laid on the bottom of the\nship after he had cast out the stones and shingle which till then had\nbeen our ballast. Wine, too, he bought for lumps of sweet-smelling grey\namber--a little morsel no bigger than a thumbnail purchased a cask of\nwine. But I speak like a merchant.'\n\n'No, no! Tell us what you had to eat,' cried Dan.\n\n'Meat dried in the sun, and dried fish and ground beans, Witta took in;\nand corded frails of a certain sweet, soft fruit, which the Moors use,\nwhich is like paste of figs, but with thin, long stones. Aha! Dates is\nthe name.\n\n'\"Now,\" said Witta, when the ship was loaded, \"I counsel you strangers\nto pray to your Gods, for from here on, our road is No Man's road.\" He\nand his men killed a black goat for sacrifice on the bows; and the\nYellow Man brought out a small, smiling image of dull-green stone and\nburned incense before it. Hugh and I commended ourselves to God, and\nSaint Barnabas, and Our Lady of the Assumption, who was specially dear\nto my Lady. We were not young, but I think no shame to say whenas we\ndrove out of that secret harbour at sunrise over a still sea, we two\nrejoiced and sang as did the knights of old when they followed our great\nDuke to England. Yet was our leader an heathen pirate; all our proud\nfleet but one galley perilously overloaded; for guidance we leaned on a\npagan sorcerer; and our port was beyond the world's end. Witta told us\nthat his father Guthrum had once in his life rowed along the shores of\nAfrica to a land where naked men sold gold for iron and beads. There had\nhe bought much gold, and no few elephants' teeth, and thither by help of\nthe Wise Iron would Witta go. Witta feared nothing--except to be poor.\n\n'\"My father told me,\" said Witta, \"that a great Shoal runs three days'\nsail out from that land, and south of the shoal lies a Forest which\ngrows in the sea. South and east of the Forest my father came to a place\nwhere the men hid gold in their hair; but all that country, he said, was\nfull of Devils who lived in trees, and tore folk limb from limb. How\nthink ye?\"\n\n'\"Gold or no gold,\" said Hugh, fingering his sword, \"it is a joyous\nventure. Have at these Devils of thine, Witta!\"\n\n'\"Venture!\" said Witta sourly. \"I am only a poor sea-thief. I do not set\nmy life adrift on a plank for joy, or the venture. Once I beach ship\nagain at Stavanger, and feel the wife's arms round my neck, I'll seek no\nmore ventures. A ship is heavier care than a wife or cattle.\"\n\n'He leaped down among the rowers, chiding them for their little strength\nand their great stomachs. Yet Witta was a wolf in fight, and a very fox\nin cunning.\n\n'We were driven South by a storm, and for three days and three nights he\ntook the stern-oar, and threddled the longship through the sea. When it\nrose beyond measure he brake a pot of whale's oil upon the water, which\nwonderfully smoothed it, and in that anointed patch he turned her head\nto the wind and threw out oars at the end of a rope, to make, he said,\nan anchor at which we lay rolling sorely, but dry. This craft his father\nGuthrum had shown him. He knew, too, all the Leech-Book of Bald, who was\na wise doctor, and he knew the Ship-Book of Hlaf the Woman, who robbed\nEgypt. He knew all the care of a ship.\n\n'After the storm we saw a mountain whose top was covered with snow and\npierced the clouds. The grasses under this mountain, boiled and eaten,\nare a good cure for soreness of the gums and swelled ankles. We lay\nthere eight days, till men in skins threw stones at us. When the heat\nincreased Witta spread a cloth on bent sticks above the rowers, for the\nwind failed between the Island of the Mountain and the shore of Africa,\nwhich is east of it. That shore is sandy, and we rowed along it within\nthree bowshots. Here we saw whales, and fish in the shape of shields,\nbut longer than our ship. Some slept, some opened their mouths at us,\nand some danced on the hot waters. The water was hot to the hand, and\nthe sky was hidden by hot, grey mists, out of which blew a fine dust\nthat whitened our hair and beards of a morning. Here, too, were fish\nthat flew in the air like birds. They would fall on the laps of the\nrowers, and when we went ashore we would roast and eat them.'\n\nThe knight paused to see if the children doubted him, but they only\nnodded and said, 'Go on.'\n\n'The yellow land lay on our left, the grey sea on our right. Knight\nthough I was, I pulled my oar amongst the rowers. I caught seaweed and\ndried it, and stuffed it between the pots of beads lest they should\nbreak. Knighthood is for the land. At sea, look you, a man is but a\nspurless rider on a bridleless horse. I learned to make strong knots in\nropes--yes, and to join two ropes end to end, so that even Witta could\nscarcely see where they had been married. But Hugh had tenfold more\nsea-cunning than I. Witta gave him charge of the rowers of the left\nside. Thorkild of Borkum, a man with a broken nose, that wore a Norman\nsteel cap, had the rowers of the right, and each side rowed and sang\nagainst the other. They saw that no man was idle. Truly, as Hugh said,\nand Witta would laugh at him, a ship is all more care than a Manor.\n\n'How? Thus. There was water to fetch from the shore when we could find\nit, as well as wild fruit and grasses, and sand for scrubbing of the\ndecks and benches to keep them sweet. Also we hauled the ship out on low\nislands and emptied all her gear, even to the iron wedges, and burned\noff the weed, that had grown on her, with torches of rush, and smoked\nbelow the decks with rushes dampened in salt water, as Hlaf the Woman\norders in her Ship-Book. Once when we were thus stripped, and the ship\nlay propped on her keel, the bird cried, \"Out swords!\" as though she saw\nan enemy. Witta vowed he would wring her neck.'\n\n'Poor Polly! Did he?' said Una.\n\n'Nay. She was the ship's bird. She could call all the rowers by name.... Those were good days--for a wifeless man--with Witta and his\nheathen--beyond the world's end. ... After many weeks we came on the\ngreat Shoal which stretched, as Witta's father had said, far out to sea.\nWe skirted it till we were giddy with the sight and dizzy with the sound\nof bars and breakers, and when we reached land again we found a naked\nblack people dwelling among woods, who for one wedge of iron loaded us\nwith fruits and grasses and eggs. Witta scratched his head at them in\nsign he would buy gold. They had no gold, but they understood the sign\n(all the gold-traders hide their gold in their thick hair), for they\npointed along the coast. They beat, too, on their chests with their\nclenched hands, and that, if we had known it, was an evil sign.'\n\n'What did it mean?' said Dan.\n\n'Patience. Ye shall hear. We followed the coast eastward sixteen days\n(counting time by sword-cuts on the helm-rail) till we came to the\nForest in the Sea. Trees grew there out of mud, arched upon lean and\nhigh roots, and many muddy waterways ran all whither into darkness,\nunder the trees. Here we lost the sun. We followed the winding channels\nbetween the trees, and where we could not row we laid hold of the\ncrusted roots and hauled ourselves along. The water was foul, and great\nglittering flies tormented us. Morning and evening a blue mist covered\nthe mud, which bred fevers. Four of our rowers sickened, and were bound\nto their benches, lest they should leap overboard and be eaten by the\nmonsters of the mud. The Yellow Man lay sick beside the Wise Iron,\nrolling his head and talking in his own tongue. Only the Bird throve.\nShe sat on Witta's shoulder and screamed in that noisome, silent\ndarkness. Yes; I think it was the silence we most feared.'\n\nHe paused to listen to the comfortable home noises of the brook.\n\n'When we had lost count of time among those black gullies and swashes we\nheard, as it were, a drum beat far off, and following it we broke into a\nbroad, brown river by a hut in a clearing among fields of pumpkins. We\nthanked God to see the sun again. The people of the village gave the\ngood welcome, and Witta scratched his head at them (for gold), and\nshowed them our iron and beads. They ran to the bank--we were still in\nthe ship--and pointed to our swords and bows, for always when near shore\nwe lay armed. Soon they fetched store of gold in bars and in dust from\ntheir huts, and some great blackened elephants' teeth. These they piled\non the bank, as though to tempt us, and made signs of dealing blows in\nbattle, and pointed up to the tree-tops, and to the forest behind. Their\ncaptain or chief sorcerer then beat on his chest with his fists, and\ngnashed his teeth.\n\n'Said Thorkild of Borkum: \"Do they mean we must fight for all this\ngear?\" and he half drew sword.\n\n'\"Nay,\" said Hugh. \"I think they ask us to league against some enemy.\"\n\n'\"I like this not,\" said Witta, of a sudden. \"Back into mid-stream.\"\n\n'So we did, and sat still all, watching the black folk and the gold they\npiled on the bank. Again we heard drums beat in the forest, and the\npeople fled to their huts, leaving the gold unguarded.\n\n'Then Hugh, at the bows, pointed without speech, and we saw a great\nDevil come out of the forest. He shaded his brows with his hand, and\nmoistened his pink tongue between his lips--thus.'\n\n'A Devil!' said Dan, delightfully horrified.\n\n'Yea. Taller than a man; covered with reddish hair. When he had well\nregarded our ship, he beat on his chest with his fists till it sounded\nlike rolling drums, and came to the bank swinging all his body between\nhis long arms, and gnashed his teeth at us. Hugh loosed arrow, and\npierced him through the throat. He fell roaring, and three other Devils\nran out of the forest and hauled him into a tall tree out of sight. Anon\nthey cast down the blood-stained arrow, and lamented together among the\nleaves.\n\nWitta saw the gold on the bank; he was loath to leave it. \"Sirs,\" said\nhe (no man had spoken till then), \"yonder is what we have come so far\nand so painfully to find, laid out to our very hand. Let us row in while\nthese Devils bewail themselves, and at least bear off what we may.\"\n\n'Bold as a wolf, cunning as a fox was Witta! He set four archers on the\nforedeck to shoot the Devils if they should leap from the tree, which\nwas close to the bank. He manned ten oars a-side, and bade them watch\nhis hand to row in or back out, and so coaxed he them toward the bank.\nBut none would set foot ashore, though the gold was within ten paces. No\nman is hasty to his hanging! They whimpered at their oars like beaten\nhounds, and Witta bit his fingers for rage.\n\n'Said Hugh of a sudden, \"Hark!\" At first we thought it was the buzzing\nof the glittering flies on the water; but it grew loud and fierce, so\nthat all men heard.'\n\n'What?' said Dan and Una.\n\n'It was the Sword.' Sir Richard patted the smooth hilt. 'It sang as a\nDane sings before battle. \"I go,\" said Hugh, and he leaped from the bows\nand fell among the gold. I was afraid to my four bones' marrow, but for\nshame's sake I followed, and Thorkild of Borkum leaped after me. None\nother came. \"Blame me not,\" cried Witta behind us, \"I must abide by my\nship.\" We three had no time to blame or praise. We stooped to the gold\nand threw it back over our shoulders, one hand on our swords and one eye\non the tree, which nigh overhung us.\n\n'I know not how the Devils leaped down, or how the fight began. I heard\nHugh cry: \"Out! out!\" as though he were at Santlache again; I saw\nThorkild's steel cap smitten off his head by a great hairy hand, and I\nfelt an arrow from the ship whistle past my ear. They say that till\nWitta took his sword to the rowers he could not bring his ship inshore;\nand each one of the four archers said afterwards that he alone had\npierced the Devil that fought me. I do not know. I went to it in my\nmail-shirt, which saved my skin. With long-sword and belt-dagger I\nfought for the life against a Devil whose very feet were hands, and who\nwhirled me back and forth like a dead branch. He had me by the waist, my\narms to my side, when an arrow from the ship pierced him between the\nshoulders, and he loosened grip. I passed my sword twice through him,\nand he crutched himself away between his long arms, coughing and\nmoaning. Next, as I remember, I saw Thorkild of Borkum, bare-headed and\nsmiling, leaping up and down before a Devil that leaped and gnashed his\nteeth. Then Hugh passed, his sword shifted to his left hand, and I\nwondered why I had not known that Hugh was a left-handed man; and\nthereafter I remembered nothing till I felt spray on my face, and we\nwere in sunshine on the open sea. That was twenty days after.'\n\n'What had happened? Did Hugh die?'the children asked.\n\n'Never was such a fight fought by christened man,' said Sir Richard. 'An\narrow from the ship had saved me from my Devil, and Thorkild of Borkum\nhad given back before his Devil, till the bowmen on the ship could shoot\nit all full of arrows from near by; but Hugh's Devil was cunning, and\nhad kept behind trees, where no arrow could reach. Body to body there,\nby stark strength of sword and hand, had Hugh slain him, and, dying, the\nThing had clenched his teeth on the sword. Judge what teeth they were!'\n\nSir Richard turned the sword again that the children might see the two\ngreat chiselled gouges on either side of the blade.\n\n'Those same teeth met in Hugh's right arm and side,' Sir Richard went\non. 'I? Oh, I had no more than a broken foot and a fever. Thorkild's ear\nwas bitten, but Hugh's arm and side clean withered away. I saw him where\nhe lay along, sucking a fruit in his left hand. His flesh was wasted off\nhis bones, his hair was patched with white, and his hand was blue-veined\nlike a woman's. He put his left arm round my neck and whispered, \"Take\nmy sword. It has been thine since Hastings, O my brother, but I can\nnever hold hilt again.\" We lay there on the high deck talking of\nSantlache, and, I think, of every day since Santlache, and it came so\nthat we both wept. I was weak, and he little more than a shadow.\n\n'\"Nay--nay,\" said Witta, at the helm-rail. \"Gold is a good right arm to\nany man. Look--look at the gold!\" He bade Thorkild show us the gold and\nthe elephants' teeth, as though we had been children. He had brought\naway all the gold on the bank, and twice as much more, that the people\nof the village gave him for slaying the Devils. They worshipped us as\nGods, Thorkild told me: it was one of their old women healed up Hugh's\npoor arm.'\n\n'How much gold did you get?'asked Dan.\n\n'How can I say? Where we came out with wedges of iron under the rowers'\nfeet we returned with wedges of gold hidden beneath planks. There was\ndust of gold in packages where we slept and along the side, and\ncrosswise under the benches we lashed the blackened elephants' teeth.\n\n'\"I had sooner have my right arm,\" said Hugh, when he had seen all.\n\n'\"Ahai! That was my fault,\" said Witta. \"I should have taken ransom and\nlanded you in France when first you came aboard, ten months ago.\"\n\n'\"It is over-late now,\" said Hugh, laughing.\n\n'Witta plucked at his long shoulder-lock. \"But think!\" said he. \"If I\nhad let ye go--which I swear I would never have done, for I love ye more\nthan brothers--if I had let ye go, by now ye might have been horribly\nslain by some mere Moor in the Duke of Burgundy's war, or ye might have\nbeen murdered by land-thieves, or ye might have died of the plague at an\ninn. Think of this and do not blame me overmuch, Hugh. See! I will only\ntake a half of the gold.\"\n\n'\"I blame thee not at all, Witta,\" said Hugh. \"It was a joyous venture,\nand we thirty-five here have done what never men have done. If I live\ntill England, I will build me a stout keep over Dallington out of my\nshare.\"\n\n'\"I will buy cattle and amber and warm red cloth for the wife,\" said\nWitta, \"and I will hold all the land at the head of Stavanger Fiord.\nMany will fight for me now. But first we must turn North, and with this\nhonest treasure aboard I pray we meet no pirate ships.\"\n\n'We did not laugh. We were careful. We were afraid lest we should lose\none grain of our gold, for which we had fought Devils.\n\n'\"Where is the Sorcerer?\" said I, for Witta was looking at the Wise Iron\nin the box, and I could not see the Yellow Man.\n\n'\"He has gone to his own country,\" said he. \"He rose up in the night\nwhile we were beating out of that forest in the mud, and said that he\ncould see it behind the trees. He leaped out on the mud, and did not\nanswer when we called; so we called no more. He left the Wise Iron,\nwhich is all that I care for--and see, the Spirit still points to the\nSouth.\"\n\n'We were troubled for fear that the Wise Iron should fail us now that\nits Yellow Man had gone, and when we saw the Spirit still served us we\ngrew afraid of too strong winds, and of shoals, and of careless leaping\nfish, and of all the people on all the shores where we landed.'\n\n'Why?' said Dan.\n\n'Because of the gold--because of our gold. Gold changes men altogether.\nThorkild of Borkum did not change. He laughed at Witta for his fears,\nand at us for our counselling Witta to furl sail when the ship pitched\nat all.\n\n'\"Better be drowned out of hand,\" said Thorkild of Borkum, \"than go tied\nto a deck-load of yellow dust.\"\n\n'He was a landless man, and had been slave to some King in the East. He\nwould have beaten out the gold into deep bands to put round the oars,\nand round the prow.\n\n'Yet, though he vexed himself for the gold, Witta waited upon Hugh like\na woman, lending him his shoulder when the ship rolled, and tying of\nropes from side to side that Hugh might hold by them. But for Hugh, he\nsaid--and so did all his men--they would never have won the gold. I\nremember Witta made a little, thin gold ring for our Bird to swing in.\n\n'Three months we rowed and sailed and went ashore for fruits or to clean\nthe ship. When we saw wild horsemen, riding among sand-dunes,\nflourishing spears, we knew we were on the Moors' coast, and stood over\nnorth to Spain; and a strong south-west wind bore us in ten days to a\ncoast of high red rocks, where we heard a hunting-horn blow among the\nyellow gorse and knew it was England.\n\n'\"Now find ye Pevensey yourselves,\" said Witta. \"I love not these narrow\nship-filled seas.\"\n\n'He set the dried, salted head of the Devil, which Hugh had killed, high\non our prow, and all boats fled from us. Yet, for our gold's sake, we\nwere more afraid than they. We crept along the coast by night till we\ncame to the chalk cliffs, and so east to Pevensey. Witta would not come\nashore with us, though Hugh promised him wine at Dallington enough to\nswim in. He was on fire to see his wife, and ran into the Marsh after\nsunset, and there he left us and our share of gold, and backed out on\nthe same tide. He made no promise; he swore no oath; he looked for no\nthanks; but to Hugh, an armless man, and to me, an old cripple whom he\ncould have flung into the sea, he passed over wedge upon wedge, packet\nupon packet of gold and dust of gold, and only ceased when we would take\nno more. As he stooped from the rail to bid us farewell he stripped off\nhis right-arm bracelets and put them all on Hugh's left, and he kissed\nHugh on the cheek. I think when Thorkild of Borkum bade the rowers give\nway we were near weeping. It is true that Witta was an heathen and a\npirate; true it is he held us by force many months in his ship, but I\nloved that bow-legged, blue-eyed man for his great boldness, his\ncunning, his skill, and, beyond all, for his simplicity.'\n\n'Did he get home all right?' said Dan.\n\n'I never knew. We saw him hoist sail under the moon-track and stand\naway. I have prayed that he found his wife and the children.'\n\n'And what did you do?'\n\n'We waited on the Marsh till the day. Then I sat by the gold, all tied\nin an old sail, while Hugh went to Pevensey, and De Aquila sent us\nhorses.'\n\nSir Richard crossed hands on his sword-hilt, and stared down stream\nthrough the soft warm shadows.\n\n'A whole shipload of gold!' said Una, looking at the little _Golden\nHind_. 'But I'm glad I didn't see the Devils.'\n\n'I don't believe they were Devils,'Dan whispered back.\n\n'Eh?' said Sir Richard. 'Witta's father warned him they were\nunquestionable Devils. One must believe one's father, and not one's\nchildren. What were my Devils, then?'\n\nDan flushed all over. 'I--I only thought,' he stammered; 'I've got a\nbook called _The Gorilla Hunters_--it's a continuation of _Coral\nIsland_, sir--and it says there that the gorillas (they're big monkeys,\nyou know) were always chewing iron up.'\n\n'Not always,' said Una. 'Only twice.' They had been reading _The Gorilla\nHunters_ in the orchard.\n\n'Well, anyhow, they always drummed on their chests, like Sir Richard's\ndid, before they went for people. And they built houses in trees, too.'\n\n'Ha!' Sir Richard opened his eyes. 'Houses like flat nests did our\nDevils make, where their imps lay and looked at us. I did not see them\n(I was sick after the fight), but Witta told me, and, lo, ye know it\nalso? Wonderful! Were our Devils only nest-building apes? Is there no\nsorcery left in the world?'\n\n'I don't know,' answered Dan, uncomfortably. 'I've seen a man take\nrabbits out of a hat, and he told us we could see how he did it, if we\nwatched hard. And we did.'\n\n'But we didn't,' said Una, sighing. 'Oh! there's Puck!'\n\nThe little fellow, brown and smiling, peered between two stems of an\nash, nodded, and slid down the bank into the cool beside them.\n\n'No sorcery, Sir Richard?' he laughed, and blew on a full dandelion head\nhe had picked.\n\n'They tell me that Witta's Wise Iron was a toy. The boy carries such an\niron with him. They tell me our Devils were apes, called gorillas!' said\nSir Richard, indignantly.\n\n'That is the sorcery of books,' said Puck. 'I warned thee they were wise\nchildren. All people can be wise by reading of books.'\n\n'But are the books true?' Sir Richard frowned. 'I like not all this\nreading and writing.'\n\n'Ye-es,' said Puck, holding the naked dandelion head at arm's length.\n'But if we hang all fellows who write falsely, why did De Aquila not\nbegin with Gilbert the Clerk? _He_ was false enough.'\n\n'Poor false Gilbert. Yet, in his fashion, he was bold,' said Sir\nRichard.\n\n'What did he do?' said Dan.\n\n'He wrote,' said Sir Richard. 'Is the tale meet for children, think\nyou?' He looked at Puck; but 'Tell us! Tell us!' cried Dan and Una\ntogether.\n\n\n\nTHORKILD'S SONG\n\n\nThere's no wind along these seas,\n  Out oars for Stavanger!\n  Forward all for Stavanger!\nSo we must wake the white-ash breeze,\n  Let fall for Stavanger!\n  A long pull for Stavanger!\n\nOh, hear the benches creak and strain!\n  (A long pull for Stavanger!)\nShe thinks she smells the Northland rain!\n  (A long pull for Stavanger!)\n\nShe thinks she smells the Northland snow,\nAnd she's as glad as we to go.\n\nShe thinks she smells the Northland rime,\nAnd the dear dark nights of winter-time.\n\nHer very bolts are sick for shore,\nAnd we--we want it ten times more!\n\nSo all you Gods that love brave men,\nSend us a three-reef gale again!\n\nSend us a gale, and watch us come,\nWith close-cropped canvas slashing home!\n\nBut--there's no wind in all these seas.\n  A long pull for Stavanger!\nSo we must wake the white-ash breeze,\n  A long pull for Stavanger!\n\n\n\n\nOLD MEN AT PEVENSEY\n\n\n\n'It has naught to do with apes or Devils,'Sir Richard went on, in an\nundertone. 'It concerns De Aquila, than whom there was never bolder nor\ncraftier, nor more hardy knight born. And remember he was an old, old\nman at that time.'\n\n'When?' said Dan.\n\n'When we came back from sailing with Witta.'\n\n'What did you do with your gold?' said Dan.\n\n'Have patience. Link by link is chain-mail made. I will tell all in its\nplace. We bore the gold to Pevensey on horseback--three loads of it--and\nthen up to the north chamber, above the Great Hall of Pevensey Castle,\nwhere De Aquila lay in winter. He sat on his bed like a little white\nfalcon, turning his head swiftly from one to the other as we told our\ntale. Jehan the Crab, an old sour man-at-arms, guarded the stairway, but\nDe Aquila bade him wait at the stair-foot, and let down both leather\ncurtains over the door. It was Jehan whom De Aquila had sent to us with\nthe horses, and only Jehan had loaded the gold. When our story was told,\nDe Aquila gave us the news of England, for we were as men waked from a\nyear-long sleep. The Red King was dead--slain (ye remember?) the day we\nset sail--and Henry, his younger brother, had made himself King of\nEngland over the head of Robert of Normandy. This was the very thing\nthat the Red King had done to Robert when our Great William died. Then\nRobert of Normandy, mad, as De Aquila said, at twice missing of this\nkingdom, had sent an army against England, which army had been well\nbeaten back to their ships at Portsmouth. A little earlier, and Witta's\nship would have rowed through them.\n\n'\"And now,\" said De Aquila, \"half the great Barons of the North and West\nare out against the King between Salisbury and Shrewsbury, and half the\nother half wait to see which way the game shall go. They say Henry is\noverly English for their stomachs, because he hath married an English\nwife and she hath coaxed him to give back their old laws to our Saxons.\n(Better ride a horse on the bit he knows, _I_ say!) But that is only a\ncloak to their falsehood.\" He cracked his finger on the table, where the\nwine was spilt, and thus he spoke:--\n\n'\"William crammed us Norman barons full of good English acres after\nSantlache. _I_ had my share too,\" he said, and clapped Hugh on the\nshoulder; \"but I warned him--I warned him before Odo rebelled--that he\nshould have bidden the Barons give up their lands and lordships in\nNormandy if they would be English lords. Now they are all but princes\nboth in England and Normandy--trencher-fed hounds, with a foot in one\ntrough and both eyes on the other! Robert of Normandy has sent them word\nthat if they do not fight for him in England he will sack and harry out\ntheir lands in Normandy. Therefore Clare has risen, FitzOsborne has\nrisen, Montgomery has risen--whom our First William made an English\nEarl. Even D'Arcy is out with his men, whose father I remember a little\nhedge-sparrow knight nearby Caen. If Henry wins, the Barons can still\nflee to Normandy, where Robert will welcome them. If Henry loses,\nRobert, he says, will give them more lands in England. Oh, a pest--a\npest on Normandy, for she will be our England's curse this many a long\nyear!\"\n\n'\"Amen,\" said Hugh. \"But will the war come our ways, think you?\"\n\n'\"Not from the North,\" said De Aquila. \"But the sea is always open. If\nthe Barons gain the upper hand Robert will send another army into\nEngland for sure, and this time I think he will land here--where his\nfather, the Conqueror, landed. Ye have brought your pigs to a pretty\nmarket! Half England alight, and gold enough on the ground\"--he stamped\non the bars beneath the table--\"to set every sword in Christendom\nfighting.\"\n\n'\"What is to do?\" said Hugh. \"I have no keep at Dallington; and if we\nburied it, whom could we trust?\"\n\n'\"Me,\" said De Aquila. \"Pevensey walls are strong. No man but Jehan, who\nis my dog, knows what is between them.\" He drew a curtain by the\nshot-window and showed us the shaft of a well in the thickness of the\nwall.\n\n'\"I made it for a drinking-well,\" he said, \"but we found salt water, and\nit rises and falls with the tide. Hark!\" We heard the water whistle and\nblow at the bottom. \"Will it serve?\" said he.\n\n'\"Needs must,\" said Hugh. \"Our lives are in thy hands.\" So we lowered\nall the gold down except one small chest of it by De Aquila's bed, which\nwe kept as much for his delight in its weight and colour as for any of\nour needs.\n\n'In the morning, ere we rode to our Manors, he said: \"I do not say\nfarewell; because ye will return and bide here. Not for love nor for\nsorrow, but to be with the gold. Have a care,\" he said, laughing, \"lest\nI use it to make myself Pope. Trust me not, but return!\"'\n\nSir Richard paused and smiled sadly.\n\n'In seven days, then, we returned from our Manors--from the Manors which\nhad been ours.'\n\n'And were the children quite well?' said Una.\n\n'My sons were young. Land and governance belong by right to young men.'\nSir Richard was talking to himself. 'It would have broken their hearts\nif we had taken back our Manors. They made us great welcome, but we\ncould see--Hugh and I could see--that our day was done. I was a cripple\nand he a one-armed man. No!' He shook his head. 'And therefore'--he\nraised his voice--'we rode back to Pevensey.'\n\n'I'm sorry,' said Una, for the knight seemed very sorrowful.\n\n'Little maid, it all passed long ago. They were young; we were old. We\nlet them rule the Manors. \"Aha!\" cried De Aquila from his shot-window,\nwhen we dismounted. \"Back again to earth, old foxes?\" but when we were\nin his chamber above the Hall he puts his arms about us and says,\n\"Welcome, ghosts! Welcome, poor ghosts!\" ... Thus it fell out that we\nwere rich beyond belief, and lonely. And lonely!'\n\n'What did you do?' said Dan.\n\n'We watched for Robert of Normandy,' said the knight. 'De Aquila was\nlike Witta. He suffered no idleness. In fair weather we would ride along\nbetween Bexlei on the one side, to Cuckmere on the other--sometimes with\nhawk, sometimes with hound (there are stout hares both on the Marsh and\nthe Downland), but always with an eye to the sea, for fear of fleets\nfrom Normandy. In foul weather he would walk on the top of his tower,\nfrowning against the rain--peering here and pointing there. It always\nvexed him to think how Witta's ship had come and gone without his\nknowledge. When the wind ceased and ships anchored, to the wharf's edge\nhe would go and, leaning on his sword among the stinking fish, would\ncall to the mariners for their news from France. His other eye he kept\nlandward for word of Henry's war against the Barons.\n\n'Many brought him news--jongleurs, harpers, pedlars, sutlers, priests\nand the like; and, though he was secret enough in small things, yet, if\ntheir news misliked him, then, regarding neither time nor place nor\npeople, he would curse our King Henry for a fool or a babe. I have heard\nhim cry aloud by the fishing boats: \"If I were King of England I would\ndo thus and thus\"; and when I rode out to see that the warning-beacons\nwere laid and dry, he hath often called to me from the shot-window:\n\"Look to it, Richard! Do not copy our blind King, but see with thine own\neyes and feel with thine own hands.\" I do not think he knew any sort of\nfear. And so we lived at Pevensey, in the little chamber above the Hall.\n\n'One foul night came word that a messenger of the King waited below. We\nwere chilled after a long riding in the fog towards Bexlei, which is an\neasy place for ships to land. De Aquila sent word the man might either\neat with us or wait till we had fed. Anon Jehan, at the stair-head,\ncried that he had called for horse, and was gone. \"Pest on him!\" said De\nAquila. \"I have more to do than to shiver in the Great Hall for every\ngadling the King sends. Left he no word?\"\n\n'\"None,\" said Jehan, \"except\"--he had been with De Aquila at\nSantlache--\"except he said that if an old dog could not learn new tricks\nit was time to sweep out the kennel.\"\n\n'\"Oho!\" said De Aquila, rubbing his nose, \"to whom did he say that?\"\n\n'\"To his beard, chiefly, but some to his horse's flank as he was\ngirthing up. I followed him out,\" said Jehan the Crab.\n\n'\"What was his shield-mark?\"\n\n'\"Gold horseshoes on black,\" said the Crab.\n\n'\"That is one of Fulke's men,\" said De Aquila.'\n\nPuck broke in very gently, 'Gold horseshoes on black is _not_ the\nFulkes' shield. The Fulkes' arms are----'\n\nThe knight waved one hand statelily.\n\n'Thou knowest that evil man's true name,' he replied, 'but I have chosen\nto call him Fulke because I promised him I would not tell the story of\nhis wickedness so that any man might guess it. I have changed _all_ the\nnames in my tale. His children's children may be still alive.'\n\n'True--true,' said Puck, smiling softly. 'It is knightly to keep\nfaith--even after a thousand years.'\n\nSir Richard bowed a little and went on:--\n\n'\"Gold horseshoes on black?\" said De Aquila. \"I had heard Fulke had\njoined the Barons, but if this is true our King must be of the upper\nhand. No matter, all Fulkes are faithless. Still, I would not have sent\nthe man away empty.\"\n\n'\"He fed,\" said Jehan. \"Gilbert the Clerk fetched him meat and wine from\nthe kitchens. He ate at Gilbert's table.\"\n\n'This Gilbert was a clerk from Battle Abbey, who kept the accounts of\nthe Manor of Pevensey. He was tall and pale-coloured, and carried those\nnew-fashioned beads for counting of prayers. They were large brown nuts\nor seeds, and hanging from his girdle with his pen and inkhorn they\nclashed when he walked. His place was in the great fireplace. There was\nhis table of accounts, and there he lay o' nights. He feared the hounds\nin the Hall that came nosing after bones or to sleep on the warm ashes,\nand would slash at them with his beads--like a woman. When De Aquila sat\nin Hall to do justice, take fines, or grant lands, Gilbert would so\nwrite it in the Manor-roll. But it was none of his work to feed our\nguests, or to let them depart without his lord's knowledge.\n\n'Said De Aquila, after Jehan was gone down the stair: \"Hugh, hast thou\never told my Gilbert thou canst read Latin hand-of-write?\"\n\n'\"No,\" said Hugh. \"He is no friend to me, or to Odo my hound either.\"\n'\"No matter,\" said De Aquila. \"Let him never know thou canst tell one\nletter from its fellow, and\"--here he jerked us in the ribs with his\nscabbard--\"watch him, both of ye. There be devils in Africa, as I have\nheard, but by the Saints, there be greater devils in Pevensey!\" And that\nwas all he would say.\n\n'It chanced, some small while afterwards, a Norman man-at-arms would wed\na Saxon wench of the Manor, and Gilbert (we had watched him well since\nDe Aquila spoke) doubted whether her folk were free or slave. Since De\nAquila would give them a field of good land, if she were free, the\nmatter came up at the justice in Great Hall before De Aquila. First the\nwench's father spoke; then her mother; then all together, till the hall\nrang and the hounds bayed. De Aquila held up his hands. \"Write her\nfree,\" he called to Gilbert by the fireplace. \"A' God's name write her\nfree, before she deafens me! Yes, yes,\" he said to the wench that was on\nher knees at him; \"thou art Cerdic's sister, and own cousin to the Lady\nof Mercia, if thou wilt be silent. In fifty years there will be neither\nNorman nor Saxon, but all English,\" said he, \"and _these_ are the men\nthat do our work!\" He clapped the man-at-arms that was Jehan's nephew on\nthe shoulder, and kissed the wench, and fretted with his feet among the\nrushes to show it was finished. (The Great Hall is always bitter cold.)\nI stood at his side; Hugh was behind Gilbert in the fireplace making to\nplay with wise rough Odo. He signed to De Aquila, who bade Gilbert\nmeasure the new field for the new couple. Out then runs our Gilbert\nbetween man and maid, his beads clashing at his waist, and the Hall\nbeing empty, we three sit by the fire.\n\n'Said Hugh, leaning down to the hearthstones, \"I saw this stone move\nunder Gilbert's foot when Odo snuffed at it. Look!\" De Aquila digged in\nthe ashes with his sword; the stone tilted; beneath it lay a parchment\nfolden, and the writing atop was: \"Words spoken against the King by our\nLord of Pevensey--the second part.\"\n\n'Here was set out (Hugh read it us whispering) every jest De Aquila had\nmade to us touching the King; every time he had called out to me from\nthe shot-window, and every time he had said what he would do if he were\nKing of England. Yes, day by day had his daily speech, which he never\nstinted, been set down by Gilbert, tricked out and twisted from its true\nmeaning, yet withal so cunningly that none could deny who knew him that\nDe Aquila had in some sort spoken those words. Ye see?'\n\nDan and Una nodded.\n\n'Yes,' said Una gravely. 'It isn't what you say so much. It's what you\nmean when you say it. Like calling Dan a beast in fun. Only grown-ups\ndon't always understand.'\n\n'\"He hath done this day by day before our very face?\" said De Aquila.\n\n'\"Nay, hour by hour,\" said Hugh. \"When De Aquila spoke even now, in the\nHall, of Saxons and Normans, I saw Gilbert write on a parchment, which\nhe kept beside the Manor-roll, that De Aquila said soon there would be\nno Normans left in England if his men-at-arms did their work aright.\"\n\n'\"Bones of the Saints!\" said De Aquila. \"What avail is honour or a sword\nagainst a pen? Where did Gilbert hide that writing? He shall eat it.\"\n\n'\"In his breast when he ran out,\" said Hugh. \"Which made me look to see\nwhere he kept his finished stuff. When Odo scratched at this stone here,\nI saw his face change. So I was sure.\"\n\n'\"He is bold,\" said De Aquila. \"Do him justice. In his own fashion, my\nGilbert is bold.\"\n\n'\"Overbold,\" said Hugh. \"Hearken here,\" and he read: \"Upon the Feast of\nSt Agatha, our Lord of Pevensey, lying in his upper chamber, being\nclothed in his second fur gown reversed with rabbit----\"\n\n'\"Pest on him! He is not my tire-woman!\" said De Aquila, and Hugh and I\nlaughed.\n\n'\"Reversed with rabbit, seeing a fog over the marshes, did wake Sir\nRichard Dalyngridge, his drunken cup-mate\" (here they laughed at me)\n\"and said, 'Peer out, old fox, for God is on the Duke of Normandy's\nside.\"'\n\n'\"So did I. It was a black fog. Robert could have landed ten thousand\nmen, and we none the wiser. Does he tell how we were out all day riding\nthe Marsh, and how I near perished in a quicksand, and coughed like a\nsick ewe for ten days after?\" cried De Aquila.\n\n'\"No,\" said Hugh. \"But here is the prayer of Gilbert himself to his\nmaster Fulke.\"\n\n'\"Ah,\" said De Aquila. \"Well I knew it was Fulke. What is the price of\nmy blood?\"\n\n'\"Gilbert prayeth that when our Lord of Pevensey is stripped of his\nlands on this evidence which Gilbert hath, with fear and pains,\ncollected----\"\n\n'\"Fear and pains is a true word,\" said De Aquila, and sucked in his\ncheeks. \"But how excellent a weapon is a pen! I must learn it.\"\n\n'\"He prays that Fulke will advance him from his present service to that\nhonour in the Church which Fulke promised him. And lest Fulke should\nforget, he has written below, 'To be Sacristan of Battle'.\"\n\n'At this De Aquila whistled. \"A man who can plot against one lord can\nplot against another. When I am stripped of my lands Fulke will whip off\nmy Gilbert's foolish head. None the less Battle needs a new Sacristan.\nThey tell me the Abbot Henry keeps no sort of rule there.\"\n\n'\"Let the Abbot wait,\" said Hugh. \"It is our heads and our lands that\nare in danger. This parchment is the second part of the tale. The first\nhas gone to Fulke, and so to the King, who will hold us traitors.\"\n\n\"Assuredly,\" said De Aquila. \"Fulke's man took the first part that\nevening when Gilbert fed him, and our King is so beset by his brother\nand his Barons (small blame, too!) that he is mad with mistrust. Fulke\nhas his ear, and pours poison into it. Presently the King gives him my\nland and yours. This is old,\" and he leaned back and yawned.\n\n'\"And thou wilt surrender Pevensey without word or blow?\" said Hugh. \"We\nSaxons will fight your King then. I will go warn my nephew at\nDallington. Give me a horse!\"\n\n'\"Give thee a toy and a rattle,\" said De Aquila. \"Put back the\nparchment, and rake over the ashes. If Fulke is given my Pevensey, which\nis England's gate, what will he do with it? He is Norman at heart, and\nhis heart is in Normandy, where he can kill peasants at his pleasure. He\nwill open England's gate to our sleepy Robert, as Odo and Mortain tried\nto do, and then there will be another landing and another Santlache.\nTherefore I cannot give up Pevensey.\"\n\n'\"Good,\" said we two.\n\n'\"Ah, but wait! If my King be made, on Gilbert's evidence, to mistrust\nme, he will send his men against me here, and while we fight, England's\ngate is left unguarded. Who will be the first to come through thereby?\nEven Robert of Normandy. Therefore I cannot fight my King.\" He nursed\nhis sword--thus.\n\n'\"This is saying and unsaying like a Norman,\" said Hugh. \"What of our\nManors?\"\n\n'\"I do not think for myself,\" said De Aquila, \"nor for our King, nor for\nyour lands. I think for England, for whom neither King nor Baron thinks.\nI am not Norman, Sir Richard, nor Saxon, Sir Hugh. English am I.\"\n\n'\"Saxon, Norman or English,\" said Hugh, \"our lives are thine, however\nthe game goes. When do we hang Gilbert?\"\n\n'\"Never,\" said De Aquila. \"Who knows, he may yet be Sacristan of Battle,\nfor, to do him justice, he is a good writer. Dead men make dumb\nwitnesses. Wait.\"\n\n'\"But the King may give Pevensey to Fulke. And our Manors go with it,\"\nsaid I. \"Shall we tell our sons?\"\n\n'\"No. The King will not wake up a hornets' nest in the South till he has\nsmoked out the bees in the North. He may hold me a traitor; but at least\nhe sees I am not fighting against him; and every day that I lie still is\nso much gain to him while he fights the Barons. If he were wise he would\nwait till that war were over before he made new enemies. But I think\nFulke will play upon him to send for me, and if I do not obey the\nsummons, that will, to Henry's mind, be proof of my treason. But mere\ntalk, such as Gilbert sends, is no proof nowadays. We Barons follow the\nChurch, and, like Anselm, we speak what we please. Let us go about our\nday's dealings, and say naught to Gilbert.\"\n\n'\"Then we do nothing?\" said Hugh.\n\n'\"We wait,\" said De Aquila. \"I am old, but still I find that the most\ngrievous work I know.\"\n\n'And so we found it, but in the end De Aquila was right.\n\n'A little later in the year, armed men rode over the hill, the Golden\nHorseshoes flying behind the King's banner. Said De Aquila, at the\nwindow of our chamber: \"How did I tell you? Here comes Fulke himself to\nspy out his new lands which our King hath promised him if he can bring\nproof of my treason.\"\n\n'\"How dost thou know?\" said Hugh.\n\n'\"Because that is what I would do if I were Fulke, but _I_ should have\nbrought more men. My roan horse to your old shoes,\" said he, \"Fulke\nbrings me the King's Summons to leave Pevensey and join the war.\" He\nsucked in his cheeks and drummed on the edge of the shaft, where the\nwater sounded all hollow.\n\n'\"Shall we go?\" said I.\n\n'\"Go! At this time of year? Stark madness,\" said he. \"Take _me_ from\nPevensey to fisk and flyte through fern and forest, and in three days\nRobert's keels would be lying on Pevensey mud with ten thousand men! Who\nwould stop them--Fulke?\"\n\n'The horns blew without, and anon Fulke cried the King's Summons at the\ngreat door, that De Aquila with all men and horse should join the King's\ncamp at Salisbury.\n\n'\"How did I tell you?\" said De Aquila. \"There are twenty Barons 'twixt\nhere and Salisbury could give King Henry good land service, but he has\nbeen worked upon by Fulke to send South and call me--_me_!--off the Gate\nof England, when his enemies stand about to batter it in. See that\nFulke's men lie in the big south barn,\" said he. \"Give them drink, and\nwhen Fulke has eaten we will drink in my chamber. The Great Hall is too\ncold for old bones.\"\n\n'As soon as he was off-horse Fulke went to the chapel with Gilbert to\ngive thanks for his safe coming, and when he had eaten--he was a fat\nman, and rolled his eyes greedily at our good roast Sussex wheatears--we\nled him to the little upper chamber, whither Gilbert had already gone\nwith the Manor-roll. I remember when Fulke heard the tide blow and\nwhistle in the shaft he leaped back, and his long down-turned\nstirrup-shoes caught in the rushes and he stumbled, so that Jehan behind\nhim found it easy to knock his head against the wall.'\n\n'Did you know it was going to happen?' said Dan.\n\n'Assuredly,' said Sir Richard, with a sweet smile. 'I put my foot on his\nsword and plucked away his dagger, but he knew not whether it was day or\nnight for awhile. He lay rolling his eyes and bubbling with his mouth,\nand Jehan roped him like a calf. He was cased all in that newfangled\narmour which we call lizard-mail. Not rings like my hauberk here'--Sir\nRichard tapped his chest--but little pieces of dagger-proof steel\noverlapping on stout leather. We stripped it off (no need to spoil good\nharness by wetting it), and in the neck-piece De Aquila found the same\nfolden piece of parchment which we had put back under the hearthstone.\n\n'At this Gilbert would have run out. I laid my hand on his shoulder. It\nsufficed. He fell to trembling and praying on his beads.\n\n'\"Gilbert,\" said De Aquila, \"here be more notable sayings and doings of\nour Lord of Pevensey for thee to write down. Take pen and ink-horn,\nGilbert. We cannot all be Sacristans of Battle.\"\n\n'Said Fulke from the floor, \"Ye have bound a King's messenger. Pevensey\nshall burn for this.\"\n\n'\"Maybe. I have seen it besieged once,\" said De Aquila, \"but heart up,\nFulke. I promise thee that thou shalt be hanged in the middle of the\nflames at the end of that siege, if I have to share my last loaf with\nthee; and that is more than Odo would have done when we starved out him\nand Mortain.\"\n\n'Then Fulke sat up and looked long and cunningly at De Aquila.\n\n'\"By the Saints,\" said he, \"why didst thou not say thou wast on the Duke\nRobert's side at the first?\"\n\n'\"Am I?\" said De Aquila.\n\n'Fulke laughed and said, \"No man who serves King Henry dare do this much\nto his messenger. When didst thou come over to the Duke? Let me up and\nwe can smooth it out together.\" And he smiled and becked and winked.\n\n'\"Yes, we will smooth it out,\" said De Aquila. He nodded to me, and\nJehan and I heaved up Fulke--he was a heavy man--and lowered him into\nthe shaft by a rope, not so as to stand on our gold, but dangling by his\nshoulders a little above. It was turn of ebb, and the water came to his\nknees. He said nothing, but shivered somewhat.\n\n'Then jehan of a sudden beat down Gilbert's wrist with his sheathed\ndagger. \"Stop!\" he said. \"He swallows his beads.\"\n\n'\"Poison, belike,\" said De Aquila. \"It is good for men who know too\nmuch. I have carried it these thirty years. Give me!\"\n\n'Then Gilbert wept and howled. De Aquila ran the beads through his\nfingers. The last one--I have said they were large nuts--opened in two\nhalves on a pin, and there was a small folded parchment within. On it\nwas written: \"_The Old Dog goes to Salisbury to be beaten. I have his\nKennel. Come quickly_.\"\n\n'\"This is worse than poison,\" said De Aquila, very softly, and sucked in\nhis cheeks. Then Gilbert grovelled in the rushes, and told us all he\nknew. The letter, as we guessed, was from Fulke to the Duke (and not the\nfirst that had passed between them); Fulke had given it to Gilbert in\nthe chapel, and Gilbert thought to have taken it by morning to a certain\nfishing boat at the wharf, which trafficked between Pevensey and the\nFrench shore. Gilbert was a false fellow, but he found time between his\nquakings and shakings to swear that the master of the boat knew nothing\nof the matter.\n\n'\"He hath called me shaved head,\" said Gilbert, \"and he hath thrown\nhaddock-guts at me; but for all that, he is no traitor.\"\n\n'\"I will have no clerk of mine mishandled or miscalled,\" said De Aquila.\n\"That seaman shall be whipped at his own mast. Write me first a letter,\nand thou shalt bear it, with the order for the whipping, to-morrow to\nthe boat.\"\n\n'At this Gilbert would have kissed De Aquila's hand--he had not hoped to\nlive until the morning--and when he trembled less he wrote a letter as\nfrom Fulke to the Duke, saying that the Kennel, which signified\nPevensey, was shut, and that the Old Dog (which was De Aquila) sat\noutside it, and, moreover, that all had been betrayed.\n\n'\"Write to any man that all is betrayed,\" said De Aquila, \"and even the\nPope himself would sleep uneasily. Eh, Jehan? If one told thee all was\nbetrayed, what wouldst thou do?\"\n\n'\"I would run away,\" said Jehan. \"it might be true.\"\n\n'\"Well said,\" quoth De Aquila. \"Write, Gilbert, that Montgomery, the\ngreat Earl, hath made his peace with the King, and that little D'Arcy,\nwhom I hate, hath been hanged by the heels. We will give Robert full\nmeasure to chew upon. Write also that Fulke himself is sick to death of\na dropsy.\"\n\n'\"Nay!\" cried Fulke, hanging in the well-shaft. \"Drown me out of hand,\nbut do not make a jest of me.\"\n\n'\"Jest? I?\" said De Aquila. \"I am but fighting for life and lands with a\npen, as thou hast shown me, Fulke.\"\n\n'Then Fulke groaned, for he was cold, and, \"Let me confess,\" said he.\n\n'\"Now, this is right neighbourly,\" said De Aquila, leaning over the\nshaft. \"Thou hast read my sayings and doings--or at least the first part\nof them--and thou art minded to repay me with thy own doings and\nsayings. Take pen and inkhorn, Gilbert. Here is work that will not irk\nthee.\"\n\n'\"Let my men go without hurt, and I will confess my treason against the\nKing,\" said Fulke.\n\n'\"Now, why has he grown so tender of his men of a sudden?\" said Hugh to\nme; for Fulke had no name for mercy to his men. Plunder he gave them,\nbut pity, none.\n\n'\"Te! Te!\" said De Aquila. \"Thy treason was all confessed long ago by\nGilbert. It would be enough to hang Montgomery himself.\"\n\n'\"Nay; but spare my men,\" said Fulke; and we heard him splash like a\nfish in a pond, for the tide was rising.\n\n'\"All in good time,\" said De Aquila. \"The night is young; the wine is\nold; and we need only the merry tale. Begin the story of thy life since\nwhen thou wast a lad at Tours. Tell it nimbly!\"\n\n'\"Ye shame me to my soul,\" said Fulke.\n\n'\"Then I have done what neither King nor Duke could do,\" said De Aquila.\n\"But begin, and forget nothing.\"\n\n'\"Send thy man away,\" said Fulke.\n\n'\"That much can I do,\" said De Aquila. \"But, remember, I am like the\nDanes' King; I cannot turn the tide.\"\n\n'\"How long will it rise?\" said Fulke, and splashed anew.\n\n'\"For three hours,\" said De Aquila. \"Time to tell all thy good deeds.\nBegin, and Gilbert,--I have heard thou art somewhat careless--do not\ntwist his words from his true meaning.\"\n\n'So--fear of death in the dark being upon him--Fulke began, and Gilbert,\nnot knowing what his fate might be, wrote it word by word. I have heard\nmany tales, but never heard I aught to match the tale of Fulke his black\nlife, as Fulke told it hollowly, hanging in the shaft.'\n\n'Was it bad?' said Dan, awestruck.\n\n'Beyond belief,' Sir Richard answered. 'None the less, there was that in\nit which forced even Gilbert to laugh. We three laughed till we ached.\nAt one place his teeth so chattered that we could not well hear, and we\nreached him down a cup of wine. Then he warmed to it, and smoothly set\nout all his shifts, malices, and treacheries, his extreme boldnesses (he\nwas desperate bold); his retreats, shufflings, and counterfeitings (he\nwas also inconceivably a coward); his lack of gear and honour; his\ndespair at their loss; his remedies, and well-coloured contrivances.\nYes, he waved the filthy rags of his life before us, as though they had\nbeen some proud banner. When he ceased, we saw by torches that the tide\nstood at the corners of his mouth, and he breathed strongly through his\nnose.\n\n'We had him out, and rubbed him; we wrapped him in a cloak, and gave him\nwine, and we leaned and looked upon him, the while he drank. He was\nshivering, but shameless.\n\n'Of a sudden we heard Jehan at the stairway wake, but a boy pushed past\nhim, and stood before us, the hall rushes in his hair, all slubbered\nwith sleep. \"My father! My father! I dreamed of treachery,\" he cried,\nand babbled thickly.\n\n'\"There is no treachery here,\" said Fulke. \"Go!\" and the boy turned,\neven then not fully awake, and Jehan led him by the hand to the Great\nHall.\n\n'\"Thy only son!\" said De Aquila. \"Why didst thou bring the child here?\"\n\n'\"He is my heir. I dared not trust him to my brother,\" said Fulke, and\nnow he was ashamed. De Aquila said nothing, but sat weighing a wine cup\nin his two hands--thus. Anon, Fulke touched him on the knee.\n\n'\"Let the boy escape to Normandy,\" said he, \"and do with me at thy\npleasure. Yea, hang me tomorrow, with my letter to Robert round my neck,\nbut let the boy go.\"\n\n'\"Be still,\" said De Aquila. \"I think for England.\"\n\n'So we waited what our Lord of Pevensey should devise; and the sweat ran\ndown Fulke's forehead.\n\n'At last said De Aquila: \"I am too old to judge, or to trust any man. I\ndo not covet thy lands, as thou hast coveted mine; and whether thou art\nany better or any worse than any other black Angevin thief, it is for\nthy King to find out. Therefore, go back to thy King, Fulke.\"\n\n'\"And thou wilt say nothing of what has passed?\" said Fulke.\n\n'\"Why should I? Thy son will stay with me. If the King calls me again to\nleave Pevensey, which I must guard against England's enemies; if the\nKing sends his men against me for a traitor; or if I hear that the King\nin his bed thinks any evil of me or my two knights, thy son will be\nhanged from out this window, Fulke.\"'\n\n'But it hadn't anything to do with his son,' cried Una, startled.\n\n'How could we have hanged Fulke?' said Sir Richard. 'We needed him to\nmake our peace with the King. He would have betrayed half England for\nthe boy's sake. Of that we were sure.'\n\n'I don't understand,' said Una. 'But I think it was simply awful.'\n\n'So did not Fulke. He was well pleased.'\n\n'What? Because his son was going to be killed?'\n\n'Nay. Because De Aquila had shown him how he might save the boy's life\nand his own lands and honours. \"I will do it,\" he said. \"I swear I will\ndo it. I will tell the King thou art no traitor, but the most excellent,\nvaliant, and perfect of us all. Yes, I will save thee.\"\n\n'De Aquila looked still into the bottom of the cup, rolling the\nwine-dregs to and fro.\n\n'\"Ay,\" he said. \"If I had a son, I would, I think, save him. But do not\nby any means tell me how thou wilt go about it.\"\n\n'\"Nay, nay,\" said Fulke, nodding his bald head wisely. \"That is my\nsecret. But rest at ease, De Aquila, no hair of thy head nor rood of thy\nland shall be forfeited,\" and he smiled like one planning great good\ndeeds.\n\n'\"And henceforward,\" said De Aquila, \"I counsel thee to serve one\nmaster--not two.\"\n\n'\"What?\" said Fulke. \"Can I work no more honest trading between the two\nsides these troublous times?\"\n\n'\"Serve Robert or the King--England or Normandy,\" said De Aquila. \"I\ncare not which it is, but make thy choice here and now.\"\n\n'\"The King, then,\" said Fulke, \"for I see he is better served than\nRobert. Shall I swear it?\"\n\n'\"No need,\" said De Aquila, and he laid his hand on the parchments which\nGilbert had written. \"It shall be some part of my Gilbert's penance to\ncopy out the savoury tale of thy life, till we have made ten, twenty, an\nhundred, maybe, copies. How many cattle, think you, would the Bishop of\nTours give for that tale? Or thy brother? Or the Monks of Blois?\nMinstrels will turn it into songs which thy own Saxon serfs shall sing\nbehind their plough-stilts, and men-at-arms riding through thy Norman\ntowns. From here to Rome, Fulke, men will make very merry over that\ntale, and how Fulke told it, hanging in a well, like a drowned puppy.\nThis shall be thy punishment, if ever I find thee double-dealing with\nthy King any more. Meantime, the parchments stay here with thy son. Him\nI will return to thee when thou hast made my peace with the King. The\nparchments never.\"\n\n'Fulke hid his face and groaned.\n\n'\"Bones of the Saints!\" said De Aquila, laughing. \"The pen cuts deep. I\ncould never have fetched that grunt out of thee with any sword.\"\n\n'\"But so long as I do not anger thee, my tale will be secret?\" said\nFulke.\n\n'\"Just so long. Does that comfort thee, Fulke?\" said De Aquila.\n\n'\"What other comfort have ye left me?\" he said, and of a sudden he wept\nhopelessly like a child, dropping his face on his knees.'\n\n'Poor Fulke,' said Una.\n\n'I pitied him also,' said Sir Richard.\n\n'\"After the spur, corn,\" said De Aquila, and he threw Fulke three wedges\nof gold that he had taken from our little chest by the bedplace.\n\n'\"If I had known this,\" said Fulke, catching his breath, \"I would never\nhave lifted hand against Pevensey. Only lack of this yellow stuff has\nmade me so unlucky in my dealings.\"\n\n'It was dawn then, and they stirred in the Great Hall below. We sent\ndown Fulke's mail to be scoured, and when he rode away at noon under his\nown and the King's banner, very splendid and stately did he show. He\nsmoothed his long beard, and called his son to his stirrup and kissed\nhim. De Aquila rode with him as far as the New Mill landward. We thought\nthe night had been all a dream.'\n\n'But did he make it right with the King?' Dan asked. 'About your not\nbeing traitors, I mean.'\n\nSir Richard smiled. 'The King sent no second summons to Pevensey, nor\ndid he ask why De Aquila had not obeyed the first. Yes, that was Fulke's\nwork. I know not how he did it, but it was well and swiftly done.'\n\n'Then you didn't do anything to his son?' said Una.\n\n'The boy? Oh, he was an imp! He turned the keep doors out of dortoirs\nwhile we had him. He sang foul songs, learned in the Barons' camps--poor\nfool; he set the hounds fighting in Hall; he lit the rushes to drive\nout, as he said, the fleas; he drew his dagger on Jehan, who threw him\ndown the stairway for it; and he rode his horse through crops and among\nsheep. But when we had beaten him, and showed him wolf and deer, he\nfollowed us old men like a young, eager hound, and called us \"uncle\".\nHis father came the summer's end to take him away, but the boy had no\nlust to go, because of the otter-hunting, and he stayed on till the\nfox-hunting. I gave him a bittern's claw to bring him good luck at\nshooting. An imp, if ever there was!'\n\n'And what happened to Gilbert?' said Dan.\n\n'Not even a whipping. De Aquila said he would sooner a clerk, however\nfalse, that knew the Manor-roll than a fool, however true, that must be\ntaught his work afresh. Moreover, after that night I think Gilbert loved\nas much as he feared De Aquila. At least he would not leave us--not even\nwhen Vivian, the King's Clerk, would have made him Sacristan of Battle\nAbbey. A false fellow, but, in his fashion, bold.'\n\n'Did Robert ever land in Pevensey after all?' Dan went on.\n\n'We guarded the coast too well while Henry was fighting his Barons; and\nthree or four years later, when England had peace, Henry crossed to\nNormandy and showed his brother some work at Tenchebrai that cured\nRobert of fighting. Many of Henry's men sailed from Pevensey to that\nwar. Fulke came, I remember, and we all four lay in the little chamber\nonce again, and drank together. De Aquila was right. One should not\njudge men. Fulke was merry. Yes, always merry--with a catch in his\nbreath.'\n\n'And what did you do afterwards?' said Una.\n\n'We talked together of times past. That is all men can do when they grow\nold, little maid.'\n\n\nThe bell for tea rang faintly across the meadows. Dan lay in the bows of\nthe _Golden Hind_; Una in the stern, the book of verses open in her lap,\nwas reading from 'The Slave's Dream':\n\n'Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,\nHe saw his native land.'\n\n'I don't know when you began that,' said Dan, sleepily.\n\nOn the middle thwart of the boat, beside Una's sun-bonnet, lay an Oak\nleaf, an Ash leaf, and a Thorn leaf, that must have dropped down from\nthe trees above; and the brook giggled as though it had just seen some\njoke.\n\n\n\nTHE RUNES ON WELAND'S SWORD\n\n\nA Smith makes me\nTo betray my Man\nIn my first fight.\n\nTo gather Gold\nAt the world's end\nI am sent.\n\nThe Gold I gather\nComes into England\nOut of deep Water.\n\nLike a shining Fish\nThen it descends\nInto deep Water.\n\nIt is not given\nFor goods or gear,\nBut for The Thing.\n\nThe Gold I gather\nA King covets\nFor an ill use.\n\nThe Gold I gather\nIs drawn up\nOut of deep Water.\n\nLike a shining Fish\nThen it descends\nInto deep Water.\n\nIt is not given\nFor goods or gear,\nBut for The Thing.\n\n\n\n\nA CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH\n\n\nCities and Thrones and Powers\n  Stand in Time's eye,\nAlmost as long as flowers,\n  Which daily die.\nBut, as new buds put forth\n  To glad new men,\nOut of the spent and unconsidered Earth,\n  The Cities rise again.\n\nThis season's Daffodil,\n  She never hears,\nWhat change, what chance, what chill,\n  Cut down last year's:\nBut with bold countenance,\n  And knowledge small,\nEsteems her seven days' continuance\n  To be perpetual.\n\nSo Time that is o'er-kind,\n  To all that be,\nOrdains us e'en as blind,\n  As bold as she:\nThat in our very death,\n  And burial sure,\nShadow to shadow, well persuaded, saith,\n  'See how our works endure!'\n\n\n\nA Centurion of the Thirtieth\n\n\nDan had come to grief over his Latin, and was kept in; so Una went alone\nto Far Wood. Dan's big catapult and the lead bullets that Hobden had\nmade for him were hidden in an old hollow beech-stub on the west of the\nwood. They had named the place out of the verse in _Lays of Ancient\nRome_:\n\n     From lordly Volaterrae,\n       Where scowls the far-famed hold\n     Piled by the hands of giants\n       For Godlike Kings of old.\n\nThey were the 'Godlike Kings', and when old Hobden\npiled some comfortable brushwood between the big wooden\nknees of Volaterrae, they called him 'Hands of Giants'.\n\nUna slipped through their private gap in the fence, and\nsat still awhile, scowling as scowlily and lordlily as she\nknew how; for Volaterrae is an important watch-tower\nthat juts out of Far Wood just as Far Wood juts out of the\nhillside. Pook's Hill lay below her and all the turns of the\nbrook as it wanders out of the Willingford Woods, between\nhop-gardens, to old Hobden's cottage at the\nForge. The Sou'-West wind (there is always a wind by\nVolaterrae) blew from the bare ridge where Cherry Clack\nWindmill stands.\n\nNow wind prowling through woods sounds like exciting\nthings going to happen, and that is why on blowy\ndays you stand up in Volaterrae and shout bits of the _Lays_\nto suit its noises.\n\nUna took Dan's catapult from its secret place, and\nmade ready to meet Lars Porsena's army stealing\nthrough the wind-whitened aspens by the brook. A gust\nboomed up the valley, and Una chanted sorrowfully:\n\n     'Verbenna down to Ostia\n       Hath wasted all the plain:\n     Astur hath stormed Janiculum,\n       And the stout guards are slain.'\n\nBut the wind, not charging fair to the wood, started aside and shook a\nsingle oak in Gleason's pasture. Here it made itself all small and\ncrouched among the grasses, waving the tips of them as a cat waves the\ntip of her tail before she springs.\n\n'Now welcome--welcome, Sextus,' sang Una, loading the catapult--\n\n'Now welcome to thy home!\nWhy dost thou stay, and turn away?\nHere lies the road to Rome.'\n\nShe fired into the face of the lull, to wake up the cowardly wind, and\nheard a grunt from behind a thorn in the pasture.\n\n'Oh, my Winkie!' she said aloud, and that was something she had picked\nup from Dan. 'I b'lieve I've tickled up a Gleason cow.'\n\n'You little painted beast!' a voice cried. 'I'll teach you to sling your\nmasters!'\n\nShe looked down most cautiously, and saw a young man covered with hoopy\nbronze armour all glowing among the late broom. But what Una admired\nbeyond all was his great bronze helmet with a red horse-tail that\nflicked in the wind. She could hear the long hairs rasp on his shimmery\nshoulder-plates.\n\n'What does the Faun mean,' he said, half aloud to himself, 'by telling\nme that the Painted People have changed?' He caught sight of Una's\nyellow head. 'Have you seen a painted lead-slinger?' he called.\n\n'No-o,' said Una. 'But if you've seen a bullet----'\n\n'Seen?' cried the man. 'It passed within a hair's breadth of my ear.'\n\n'Well, that was me. I'm most awfully sorry.'\n\n'Didn't the Faun tell you I was coming?' He smiled.\n\n'Not if you mean Puck. I thought you were a Gleason cow. I--I didn't\nknow you were a--a----What are you?'\n\nHe laughed outright, showing a set of splendid teeth. His face and eyes\nwere dark, and his eyebrows met above his big nose in one bushy black\nbar.\n\n'They call me Parnesius. I have been a Centurion of the Seventh Cohort\nof the Thirtieth Legion--the Ulpia Victrix. Did you sling that bullet?'\n\n'I did. I was using Dan's catapult,' said Una.\n\n'Catapults!' said he. 'I ought to know something about them. Show me!'\n\nHe leaped the rough fence with a rattle of spear, shield, and armour,\nand hoisted himself into Volaterrae as quickly as a shadow.\n\n'A sling on a forked stick. I understand!' he cried, and pulled at the\nelastic. 'But what wonderful beast yields this stretching leather?'\n\n'It's laccy--elastic. You put the bullet into that loop, and then you\npull hard.'\n\nThe man pulled, and hit himself square on his thumb-nail.\n\n'Each to his own weapon,' he said gravely, handing it back. 'I am better\nwith the bigger machine, little maiden. But it's a pretty toy. A wolf\nwould laugh at it. Aren't you afraid of wolves?'\n\n'There aren't any,' said Una.\n\n'Never believe it! A wolf's like a Winged Hat. He comes when he isn't\nexpected. Don't they hunt wolves here?'\n\n'We don't hunt,' said Una, remembering what she had heard from grown-ups.\n'We preserve--pheasants. Do you know them?'\n\n'I ought to,' said the young man, smiling again, and he imitated the cry\nof the cock-pheasant so perfectly that a bird answered out of the wood.\n\n'What a big painted clucking fool is a pheasant!' he said. 'Just like\nsome Romans.'\n\n'But you're a Roman yourself, aren't you?' said Una.\n\n'Ye-es and no. I'm one of a good few thousands who have never seen Rome\nexcept in a picture. My people have lived at Vectis for generations.\nVectis--that island West yonder that you can see from so far in clear\nweather.'\n\n'Do you mean the Isle of Wight? It lifts up just before rain, and you\nsee it from the Downs.'\n\n'Very likely. Our villa's on the South edge of the Island, by the Broken\nCliffs. Most of it is three hundred years old, but the cow-stables,\nwhere our first ancestor lived, must be a hundred years older. Oh, quite\nthat, because the founder of our family had his land given him by\nAgricola at the Settlement. It's not a bad little place for its size. In\nspring-time violets grow down to the very beach. I've gathered sea-weeds\nfor myself and violets for my Mother many a time with our old nurse.'\n\n'Was your nurse a--a Romaness too?'\n\n'No, a Numidian. Gods be good to her! A dear, fat, brown thing with a\ntongue like a cowbell. She was a free woman. By the way, are you free,\nmaiden?'\n\n'Oh, quite,' said Una. 'At least, till tea-time; and in summer our\ngoverness doesn't say much if we're late.'\n\nThe young man laughed again--a proper understanding laugh.\n\n'I see,' said he. 'That accounts for your being in the wood. _We_ hid\namong the cliffs.'\n\n'Did you have a governess, then?'\n\n'Did we not? A Greek, too. She had a way of clutching her dress when she\nhunted us among the gorse-bushes that made us laugh. Then she'd say\nshe'd get us whipped. She never did, though, bless her! Aglaia was a\nthorough sportswoman, for all her learning.'\n\n'But what lessons did you do--when--when you were little?'\n\n'Ancient history, the Classics, arithmetic and so on,' he answered. 'My\nsister and I were thick-heads, but my two brothers (I'm the middle one)\nliked those things, and, of course, Mother was clever enough for any\nsix. She was nearly as tall as I am, and she looked like the new statue\non the Western Road--the Demeter of the Baskets, you know. And funny!\nRoma Dea! How Mother could make us laugh!'\n\n'What at?'\n\n'Little jokes and sayings that every family has. Don't you know?'\n\n'I know we have, but I didn't know other people had them too,' said Una.\n'Tell me about all your family, please.'\n\n'Good families are very much alike. Mother would sit spinning of\nevenings while Aglaia read in her corner, and Father did accounts, and\nwe four romped about the passages. When our noise grew too loud the\nPater would say, \"Less tumult! Less tumult! Have you never heard of a\nFather's right over his children? He can slay them, my loves--slay them\ndead, and the Gods highly approve of the action!\" Then Mother would prim\nup her dear mouth over the wheel and answer: \"H'm! I'm afraid there\ncan't be much of the Roman Father about you!\" Then the Pater would roll\nup his accounts, and say, \"I'll show you!\" and then--then, he'd be worse\nthan any of us!'\n\n'Fathers can--if they like,' said Una, her eyes dancing.\n\n'Didn't I say all good families are very much the same?'\n\n'What did you do in summer?' said Una. 'Play about, like us?'\n\n'Yes, and we visited our friends. There are no wolves in Vectis. We had\nmany friends, and as many ponies as we wished.'\n\n'It must have been lovely,' said Una. 'I hope it lasted for ever.'\n\n'Not quite, little maid. When I was about sixteen or seventeen, the\nFather felt gouty, and we all went to the Waters.'\n\n'What waters?'\n\n'At Aquae Solis. Every one goes there. You ought to get your Father to\ntake you some day.'\n\n'But where? I don't know,' said Una.\n\nThe young man looked astonished for a moment. 'Aquae Solis,' he\nrepeated. 'The best baths in Britain. just as good, I'm told, as Rome.\nAll the old gluttons sit in hot water, and talk scandal and politics.\nAnd the Generals come through the streets with their guards behind them;\nand the magistrates come in their chairs with their stiff guards behind\nthem; and you meet fortune-tellers, and goldsmiths, and merchants, and\nphilosophers, and feather-sellers, and ultra-Roman Britons, and\nultra-British Romans, and tame tribesmen pretending to be civilised, and\nJew lecturers, and--oh, everybody interesting. We young people, of\ncourse, took no interest in politics. We had not the gout: there were\nmany of our age like us. We did not find life sad.\n\n'But while we were enjoying ourselves without thinking, my sister met\nthe son of a magistrate in the West--and a year afterwards she was\nmarried to him. My young brother, who was always interested in plants\nand roots, met the First Doctor of a Legion from the City of the\nLegions, and he decided that he would be an Army doctor. I do not think\nit is a profession for a well-born man, but then--I'm not my brother. He\nwent to Rome to study medicine, and now he's First Doctor of a Legion in\nEgypt--at Antinoe, I think, but I have not heard from him for some time.\n\n'My eldest brother came across a Greek philosopher, and told my Father\nthat he intended to settle down on the estate as a farmer and a\nphilosopher. You see,'--the young man's eyes twinkled--'his philosopher\nwas a long-haired one!'\n\n'I thought philosophers were bald,' said Una.\n\n'Not all. She was very pretty. I don't blame him. Nothing could have\nsuited me better than my eldest brother's doing this, for I was only too\nkeen to join the Army. I had always feared I should have to stay at home\nand look after the estate while my brother took _this_.'\n\nHe rapped on his great glistening shield that never seemed to be in his\nway.\n\n'So we were well contented--we young people--and we rode back to\nClausentum along the Wood Road very quietly. But when we reached home,\nAglaia, our governess, saw what had come to us. I remember her at the\ndoor, the torch over her head, watching us climb the cliff-path from the\nboat. \"Aie! Aie!\" she said. \"Children you went away. Men and a woman you\nreturn!\" Then she kissed Mother, and Mother wept. Thus our visit to the\nWaters settled our fates for each of us, Maiden.'\n\nHe rose to his feet and listened, leaning on the shield-rim.\n\n'I think that's Dan--my brother,' said Una.\n\n'Yes; and the Faun is with him,' he replied, as Dan with Puck stumbled\nthrough the copse.\n\n'We should have come sooner,' Puck called, 'but the beauties of your\nnative tongue, O Parnesius, have enthralled this young citizen.'\n\nParnesius looked bewildered, even when Una explained.\n\n'Dan said the plural of \"dominus\" was \"dominoes\", and when Miss Blake\nsaid it wasn't he said he supposed it was \"backgammon\", and so he had to\nwrite it out twice--for cheek, you know.'\n\nDan had climbed into Volaterrae, hot and panting.\n\n'I've run nearly all the way,' he gasped, 'and then Puck met me. How do\nyou do, Sir?'\n\n'I am in good health,' Parnesius answered. 'See! I have tried to bend\nthe bow of Ulysses, but----' He held up his thumb.\n\n'I'm sorry. You must have pulled off too soon,' said Dan. 'But Puck said\nyou were telling Una a story.'\n\n'Continue, O Parnesius,' said Puck, who had perched himself on a dead\nbranch above them. 'I will be chorus. Has he puzzled you much, Una?'\n\n'Not a bit, except--I didn't know where Ak--Ak something was,' she\nanswered.\n\n'Oh, Aquae Solis. That's Bath, where the buns come from. Let the hero\ntell his own tale.'\n\nParnesius pretended to thrust his spear at Puck's legs, but Puck reached\ndown, caught at the horse-tail plume, and pulled off the tall helmet.\n\n'Thanks, jester,' said Parnesius, shaking his curly dark head. 'That is\ncooler. Now hang it up for me....\n\n'I was telling your sister how I joined the Army,' he said to Dan.\n\n'Did you have to pass an Exam?' Dan asked eagerly.\n\n'No. I went to my Father, and said I should like to enter the Dacian\nHorse (I had seen some at Aquae Solis); but he said I had better begin\nservice in a regular Legion from Rome. Now, like many of our youngsters,\nI was not too fond of anything Roman. The Roman-born officers and\nmagistrates looked down on us British-born as though we were barbarians.\nI told my Father so.\n\n'\"I know they do,\" he said; \"but remember, after all, we are the people\nof the Old Stock, and our duty is to the Empire.\"\n\n'\"To which Empire?\" I asked. \"We split the Eagle before I was born.\"\n\n'\"What thieves' talk is that?\" said my Father. He hated slang.\n\n'\"Well, sir,\" I said, \"we've one Emperor in Rome, and I don't know how\nmany Emperors the outlying Provinces have set up from time to time.\nWhich am I to follow?\"\n\n'\"Gratian,\" said he. \"At least he's a sportsman.\"\n\n'\"He's all that,\" I said. \"Hasn't he turned himself into a\nraw-beef-eating Scythian?\"\n\n'\"Where did you hear of it?\" said the Pater.\n\n'\"At Aquae Solis,\" I said. It was perfectly true. This precious Emperor\nGratian of ours had a bodyguard of fur-cloaked Scythians, and he was so\ncrazy about them that he dressed like them. In Rome of all places in the\nworld! It was as bad as if my own Father had painted himself blue!\n\n'\"No matter for the clothes,\" said the Pater. \"They are only the fringe\nof the trouble. It began before your time or mine. Rome has forsaken her\nGods, and must be punished. The great war with the Painted People broke\nout in the very year the temples of our Gods were destroyed. We beat the\nPainted People in the very year our temples were rebuilt. Go back\nfurther still.\"... He went back to the time of Diocletian; and to listen\nto him you would have thought Eternal Rome herself was on the edge of\ndestruction, just because a few people had become a little large-minded.\n\n'_I_ knew nothing about it. Aglaia never taught us the history of our\nown country. She was so full of her ancient Greeks.\n\n'\"There is no hope for Rome,\" said the Pater, at last. \"She has forsaken\nher Gods, but if the Gods forgive _us_ here, we may save Britain. To do\nthat, we must keep the Painted People back. Therefore, I tell you,\nParnesius, as a Father, that if your heart is set on service, your place\nis among men on the Wall--and not with women among the cities.\"'\n\n'What Wall?' asked Dan and Una at once.\n\n'Father meant the one we call Hadrian's Wall. I'll tell you about it\nlater. It was built long ago, across North Britain, to keep out the\nPainted People--Picts, you call them. Father had fought in the great\nPict War that lasted more than twenty years, and he knew what fighting\nmeant. Theodosius, one of our great Generals, had chased the little\nbeasts back far into the North before I was born. Down at Vectis, of\ncourse, we never troubled our heads about them. But when my Father spoke\nas he did, I kissed his hand, and waited for orders. We British-born\nRomans know what is due to our parents.'\n\n'If I kissed my Father's hand, he'd laugh,' said Dan.\n\n'Customs change; but if you do not obey your Father, the Gods remember\nit. You may be quite sure of _that_.\n\n'After our talk, seeing I was in earnest, the Pater sent me over to\nClausentum to learn my foot-drill in a barrack full of foreign\nauxiliaries--as unwashed and unshaved a mob of mixed barbarians as ever\nscrubbed a breastplate. It was your stick in their stomachs and your\nshield in their faces to push them into any sort of formation. When I\nhad learned my work the Instructor gave me a handful--and they were a\nhandful!--of Gauls and Iberians to polish up till they were sent to\ntheir stations up-country. I did my best, and one night a villa in the\nsuburbs caught fire, and I had my handful out and at work before any of\nthe other troops. I noticed a quiet-looking man on the lawn, leaning on\na stick. He watched us passing buckets from the pond, and at last he\nsaid to me: \"Who are you?\"\n\n'\"A probationer, waiting for a command,\" I answered. _I_ didn't know who\nhe was from Deucalion!\n\n'\"Born in Britain?\" he said.\n\n'\"Yes, if you were born in Spain,\" I said, for he neighed his words like\nan Iberian mule.\n\n'\"And what might you call yourself when you are at home?\" he said,\nlaughing.\n\n'\"That depends,\" I answered; \"sometimes one thing and sometimes another.\nBut now I'm busy.\"\n\n'He said no more till we had saved the family gods (they were\nrespectable householders), and then he grunted across the laurels:\n\"Listen, young sometimes-one-thing-and-sometimes-another. In future call\nyourself Centurion of the Seventh Cohort of the Thirtieth, the Ulpia\nVictrix. That will help me to remember you. Your Father and a few other\npeople call me Maximus.\"\n\n'He tossed me the polished stick he was leaning on, and went away. You\nmight have knocked me down with it!'\n\n'Who was he?' said Dan.\n\n'Maximus himself, our great General! _The_ General of Britain who had\nbeen Theodosius's right hand in the Pict War! Not only had he given me\nmy Centurion's stick direct, but three steps in a good Legion as well! A\nnew man generally begins in the Tenth Cohort of his Legion, and works\nup.'\n\n'And were you pleased?' said Una.\n\n'Very. I thought Maximus had chosen me for my good looks and fine style\nin marching, but, when I went home, the Pater told me he had served\nunder Maximus in the great Pict War, and had asked him to befriend me.'\n\n'A child you were!' said Puck, from above.\n\n'I was,' said Parnesius. 'Don't begrudge it me, Faun. Afterwards--the\nGods know I put aside the games!' And Puck nodded, brown chin on brown\nhand, his big eyes still.\n\n'The night before I left we sacrificed to our ancestors--the usual\nlittle Home Sacrifice--but I never prayed so earnestly to all the Good\nShades, and then I went with my Father by boat to Regnum, and across the\nchalk eastwards to Anderida yonder.'\n\n'Regnum? Anderida?' The children turned their faces to Puck.\n\n'Regnum's Chichester,' he said, pointing towards Cherry Clack, 'and'--he\nthrew his arm South behind him--'Anderida's Pevensey.'\n\n'Pevensey again!' said Dan. 'Where Weland landed?'\n\n'Weland and a few others,' said Puck. 'Pevensey isn't young--even\ncompared to me!'\n\n'The headquarters of the Thirtieth lay at Anderida in summer, but my own\nCohort, the Seventh, was on the Wall up North. Maximus was inspecting\nAuxiliaries--the Abulci, I think--at Anderida, and we stayed with him,\nfor he and my Father were very old friends. I was only there ten days\nwhen I was ordered to go up with thirty men to my Cohort.' He laughed\nmerrily. 'A man never forgets his first march. I was happier than any\nEmperor when I led my handful through the North Gate of the Camp, and we\nsaluted the guard and the Altar of Victory there.'\n\n'How? How?' said Dan and Una.\n\nParnesius smiled, and stood up, flashing in his armour.\n\n'So!' said he; and he moved slowly through the beautiful movements of\nthe Roman Salute, that ends with a hollow clang of the shield coming\ninto its place between the shoulders.\n\n'Hai!' said Puck. 'That sets one thinking!'\n\n'We went out fully armed,' said Parnesius, sitting down; 'but as soon as\nthe road entered the Great Forest, my men expected the pack-horses to\nhang their shields on. \"No!\" I said; \"you can dress like women in\nAnderida, but while you're with me you will carry your own weapons and\narmour.\"\n\n'\"But it's hot,\" said one of them, \"and we haven't a doctor. Suppose we\nget sunstroke, or a fever?\"\n\n'\"Then die,\" I said, \"and a good riddance to Rome! Up shield--up spears,\nand tighten your foot-wear!\"\n\n'\"Don't think yourself Emperor of Britain already,\" a fellow shouted. I\nknocked him over with the butt of my spear, and explained to these\nRoman-born Romans that, if there were any further trouble, we should go\non with one man short. And, by the Light of the Sun, I meant it too! My\nraw Gauls at Clausentum had never treated me so.\n\n'Then, quietly as a cloud, Maximus rode out of the fern (my Father\nbehind him), and reined up across the road. He wore the Purple, as\nthough he were already Emperor; his leggings were of white buckskin\nlaced with gold.\n\n'My men dropped like--like partridges.\n\n'He said nothing for some time, only looked, with his eyes puckered.\nThen he crooked his forefinger, and my men walked--crawled, I mean--to\none side.\n\n'\"Stand in the sun, children,\" he said, and they formed up on the hard\nroad.\n\n'\"What would you have done,\" he said to me, \"if I had not been here?\"\n\n'\"I should have killed that man,\" I answered.\n\n'\"Kill him now,\" he said. \"He will not move a limb.\"\n\n'\"No,\" I said. \"You've taken my men out of my command. I should only be\nyour butcher if I killed him now.\" Do you see what I meant?' Parnesius\nturned to Dan.\n\n'Yes,' said Dan. 'It wouldn't have been fair, somehow.'\n\n'That was what I thought,' said Parnesius. 'But Maximus frowned. \"You'll\nnever be an Emperor,\" he said. \"Not even a General will you be.\"\n\n'I was silent, but my Father seemed pleased.\n\n'\"I came here to see the last of you,\" he said.\n\n'\"You have seen it,\" said Maximus. \"I shall never need your son any\nmore. He will live and he will die an officer of a Legion--and he might\nhave been Prefect of one of my Provinces. Now eat and drink with us,\" he\nsaid. \"Your men will wait till you have finished.\"\n\n'My miserable thirty stood like wine-skins glistening in the hot sun,\nand Maximus led us to where his people had set a meal. Himself he mixed\nthe wine.\n\n'\"A year from now,\" he said, \"you will remember that you have sat with\nthe Emperor of Britain--and Gaul.\"\n\n'\"Yes,\" said the Pater, \"you can drive two mules--Gaul and Britain.\"\n\n'\"Five years hence you will remember that you have drunk\"--he passed me\nthe cup and there was blue borage in it--\"with the Emperor of Rome!\"\n\n'\"No; you can't drive three mules. They will tear you in pieces,\" said\nmy Father.\n\n'\"And you on the Wall, among the heather, will weep because your notion\nof justice was more to you than the favour of the Emperor of Rome.\"\n\n'I sat quite still. One does not answer a General who wears the Purple.\n\n'\"I am not angry with you,\" he went on; \"I owe too much to your\nFather----\"\n\n'\"You owe me nothing but advice that you never took,\" said the Pater.\n\n'\"----to be unjust to any of your family. Indeed, I say you may make a\ngood Tribune, but, so far as I am concerned, on the Wall you will live,\nand on the Wall you will die,\" said Maximus.\n\n'\"Very like,\" said my Father. \"But we shall have the Picts _and_ their\nfriends breaking through before long. You cannot move all troops out of\nBritain to make you Emperor, and expect the North to sit quiet.\"\n\n'\"I follow my destiny,\" said Maximus.\n\n'\"Follow it, then,\" said my Father, pulling up a fern root; \"and die as\nTheodosius died.\"\n\n'\"Ah!\" said Maximus. \"My old General was killed because he served the\nEmpire too well. _I_ may be killed, but not for that reason,\" and he\nsmiled a little pale grey smile that made my blood run cold.\n\n'\"Then I had better follow my destiny,\" I said, \"and take my men to the\nWall.\"\n\n'He looked at me a long time, and bowed his head slanting like a\nSpaniard. \"Follow it, boy,\" he said. That was all. I was only too glad\nto get away, though I had many messages for home. I found my men\nstanding as they had been put--they had not even shifted their feet in\nthe dust, and off I marched, still feeling that terrific smile like an\neast wind up my back. I never halted them till sunset, and'--he turned\nabout and looked at Pook's Hill below him--'then I halted yonder.' He\npointed to the broken, bracken-covered shoulder of the Forge Hill behind\nold Hobden's cottage.\n\n'There? Why, that's only the old Forge--where they made iron once,' said\nDan.\n\n'Very good stuff it was too,' said Parnesius calmly. 'We mended three\nshoulder-straps here and had a spear-head riveted. The Forge was rented\nfrom the Government by a one-eyed smith from Carthage. I remember we\ncalled him Cyclops. He sold me a beaver-skin rug for my sister's room.'\n\n'But it couldn't have been here,' Dan insisted.\n\n'But it was! From the Altar of Victory at Anderida to the First Forge in\nthe Forest here is twelve miles seven hundred paces. It is all in the\nRoad Book. A man doesn't forget his first march. I think I could tell\nyou every station between this and----' He leaned forward, but his eye\nwas caught by the setting sun.\n\nIt had come down to the top of Cherry Clack Hill, and the light poured\nin between the tree trunks so that you could see red and gold and black\ndeep into the heart of Far Wood; and Parnesius in his armour shone as\nthough he had been afire.\n\n'Wait!' he said, lifting a hand, and the sunlight jinked on his glass\nbracelet. 'Wait! I pray to Mithras!'\n\nHe rose and stretched his arms westward, with deep, splendid-sounding\nwords.\n\nThen Puck began to sing too, in a voice like bells tolling, and as he\nsang he slipped from Volaterrae to the ground, and beckoned the children\nto follow. They obeyed; it seemed as though the voices were pushing them\nalong; and through the goldy-brown light on the beech leaves they\nwalked, while Puck between them chanted something like this:\n\n'Cur mundus militat sub vana gloria\nCujus prosperitas est transitoria?\nTam cito labitur ejus potentia\nQuam vasa figuli quae sunt fragilia.'\n\nThey found themselves at the little locked gates of the wood.\n\n'Quo Caesar abiit celsus imperio?\nVel Dives splendidus totus in prandio?\nDic ubi Tullius----'\n\nStill singing, he took Dan's hand and wheeled him round to face Una as\nshe came out of the gate. It shut behind her, at the same time as Puck\nthrew the memory-magicking Oak, Ash and Thorn leaves over their heads.\n\n'Well, you _are_ jolly late,' said Una. 'Couldn't you get away before?'\n\n'I did,' said Dan. 'I got away in lots of time, but--but I didn't know\nit was so late. Where've you been?'\n\n'In Volaterrae--waiting for you.'\n\n'Sorry,' said Dan. 'It was all that beastly Latin.'\n\n\n\nA BRITISH-ROMAN SONG (A.D. 406)\n\n\nMy father's father saw it not,\n  And I, belike, shall never come,\nTo look on that so-holy spot--\n                 The very Rome--\n\nCrowned by all Time, all Art, all Might,\n  The equal work of Gods and Man,\nCity beneath whose oldest height--\n                 The Race began!\n\nSoon to send forth again a brood,\n  Unshakeable, we pray, that clings,\nTo Rome's thrice-hammered hardihood--\n                 In arduous things.\n\nStrong heart with triple armour bound,\n  Beat strongly, for thy life-blood runs,\nAge after Age, the Empire round--\n                 In us thy Sons,\n\nWho, distant from the Seven Hills,\n  Loving and serving much, require\nThee,--thee to guard 'gainst home-born ills\n                 The Imperial Fire!\n\n\n\nON THE GREAT WALL\n\n\n'When I left Rome for Lalage's sake\n  By the Legions' Road to Rimini,\nShe vowed her heart was mine to take\n  With me and my shield to Rimini--\n  (Till the Eagles flew from Rimini!)\n    And I've tramped Britain, and I've tramped Gaul,\n    And the Pontic shore where the snow-flakes fall\n  As white as the neck of Lalage--\n  (As cold as the heart of Lalage!)\n    And I've lost Britain, and I've lost Gaul,'\n\n(the voice seemed very cheerful about it),\n\n    'And I've lost Rome, and, worst of all,\n      I've lost Lalage!'\n\nThey were standing by the gate to Far Wood when they heard this song.\nWithout a word they hurried to their private gap and wriggled through\nthe hedge almost atop of a jay that was feeding from Puck's hand.\n\n'Gently!' said Puck. 'What are you looking for?'\n\n'Parnesius, of course,' Dan answered. 'We've only just remembered\nyesterday. It isn't fair.'\n\nPuck chuckled as he rose. 'I'm sorry, but children who spend the\nafternoon with me and a Roman Centurion need a little settling dose of\nMagic before they go to tea with their governess. Ohe, Parnesius!' he\ncalled.\n\n'Here, Faun!' came the answer from Volaterrae. They could see the\nshimmer of bronze armour in the beech crotch, and the friendly flash of\nthe great shield uplifted.\n\n'I have driven out the Britons.' Parnesius laughed like a boy. 'I occupy\ntheir high forts. But Rome is merciful! You may come up.' And up they\nthree all scrambled.\n\n'What was the song you were singing just now?' said Una, as soon as she\nhad settled herself.\n\n'That? Oh, _Rimini_. It's one of the tunes that are always being born\nsomewhere in the Empire. They run like a pestilence for six months or a\nyear, till another one pleases the Legions, and then they march to\n_that_.'\n\n'Tell them about the marching, Parnesius. Few people nowadays walk from\nend to end of this country,' said Puck.\n\n'The greater their loss. I know nothing better than the Long March when\nyour feet are hardened. You begin after the mists have risen, and you\nend, perhaps, an hour after sundown.'\n\n'And what do you have to eat?' Dan asked promptly.\n\n'Fat bacon, beans, and bread, and whatever wine happens to be in the\nrest-houses. But soldiers are born grumblers. Their very first day out,\nmy men complained of our water-ground British corn. They said it wasn't\nso filling as the rough stuff that is ground in the Roman ox-mills.\nHowever, they had to fetch and eat it.'\n\n'Fetch it? Where from?' said Una.\n\n'From that newly invented water-mill below the Forge.'\n\n'That's Forge Mill--_our_ Mill!' Una looked at Puck.\n\n'Yes; yours,' Puck put in. 'How old did you think it was?'\n\n'I don't know. Didn't Sir Richard Dalyngridge talk about it?'\n\n'He did, and it was old in his day,' Puck answered. 'Hundreds of years\nold.'\n\n'It was new in mine,' said Parnesius. 'My men looked at the flour in\ntheir helmets as though it had been a nest of adders. They did it to try\nmy patience. But I--addressed them, and we became friends. To tell the\ntruth, they taught me the Roman Step. You see, I'd only served with\nquick-marching Auxiliaries. A Legion's pace is altogether different. It\nis a long, slow stride, that never varies from sunrise to sunset.\n\"Rome's Race--Rome's Pace,\" as the proverb says. Twenty-four miles in\neight hours, neither more nor less. Head and spear up, shield on your\nback, cuirass-collar open one hand's breadth--and that's how you take\nthe Eagles through Britain.'\n\n'And did you meet any adventures?' said Dan.\n\n'There are no adventures South the Wall,' said Parnesius. 'The worst\nthing that happened me was having to appear before a magistrate up\nNorth, where a wandering philosopher had jeered at the Eagles. I was\nable to show that the old man had deliberately blocked our road; and the\nmagistrate told him, out of his own Book, I believe, that, whatever his\nGods might be, he should pay proper respect to Caesar.'\n\n'What did you do?' said Dan.\n\n'Went on. Why should _I_ care for such things, my business being to\nreach my station? It took me twenty days.\n\n'Of course, the farther North you go the emptier are the roads. At last\nyou fetch clear of the forests and climb bare hills, where wolves howl\nin the ruins of our cities that have been. No more pretty girls; no more\njolly magistrates who knew your Father when he was young, and invite you\nto stay with them; no news at the temples and way-stations except bad\nnews of wild beasts. There's where you meet hunters, and trappers for\nthe Circuses, prodding along chained bears and muzzled wolves. Your pony\nshies at them, and your men laugh.\n\n'The houses change from gardened villas to shut forts with watch-towers\nof grey stone, and great stone-walled sheepfolds, guarded by armed\nBritons of the North Shore. In the naked hills beyond the naked houses,\nwhere the shadows of the clouds play like cavalry charging, you see\npuffs of black smoke from the mines. The hard road goes on and on--and\nthe wind sings through your helmet-plume--past altars to Legions and\nGenerals forgotten, and broken statues of Gods and Heroes, and thousands\nof graves where the mountain foxes and hares peep at you. Red-hot in\nsummer, freezing in winter, is that big, purple heather country of\nbroken stone.\n\n'Just when you think you are at the world's end, you see a smoke from\nEast to West as far as the eye can turn, and then, under it, also as far\nas the eye can stretch, houses and temples, shops and theatres, barracks\nand granaries, trickling along like dice behind--always behind--one\nlong, low, rising and falling, and hiding and showing line of towers.\nAnd that is the Wall!'\n\n'Ah!' said the children, taking breath.\n\n'You may well,' said Parnesius. 'Old men who have followed the Eagles\nsince boyhood say nothing in the Empire is more wonderful than first\nsight of the Wall!'\n\n'Is it just a Wall? Like the one round the kitchen-garden?' said Dan.\n\n'No, no! It is _the_ Wall. Along the top are towers with guard-houses,\nsmall towers, between. Even on the narrowest part of it three men with\nshields can walk abreast, from guard-house to guard-house. A little\ncurtain wall, no higher than a man's neck, runs along the top of the\nthick wall, so that from a distance you see the helmets of the sentries\nsliding back and forth like beads. Thirty feet high is the Wall, and on\nthe Picts' side, the North, is a ditch, strewn with blades of old swords\nand spear-heads set in wood, and tyres of wheels joined by chains. The\nLittle People come there to steal iron for their arrow-heads.\n\n'But the Wall itself is not more wonderful than the town behind it. Long\nago there were great ramparts and ditches on the South side, and no one\nwas allowed to build there. Now the ramparts are partly pulled down and\nbuilt over, from end to end of the Wall; making a thin town eighty miles\nlong. Think of it! One roaring, rioting, cock-fighting, wolf-baiting,\nhorse-racing town, from Ituna on the West to Segedunum on the cold\neastern beach! On one side heather, woods and ruins where Picts hide,\nand on the other, a vast town--long like a snake, and wicked like a\nsnake. Yes, a snake basking beside a warm wall!\n\n'My Cohort, I was told, lay at Hunno, where the Great North Road runs\nthrough the Wall into the Province of Valentia.' Parnesius laughed\nscornfully. 'The Province of Valentia! We followed the road, therefore,\ninto Hunno town, and stood astonished. The place was a fair--a fair of\npeoples from every corner of the Empire. Some were racing horses: some\nsat in wine-shops: some watched dogs baiting bears, and many gathered in\na ditch to see cocks fight. A boy not much older than myself, but I\ncould see he was an officer, reined up before me and asked what I\nwanted.\n\n'\"My station,\" I said, and showed him my shield.' Parnesius held up his\nbroad shield with its three X's like letters on a beer-cask.\n\n'\"Lucky omen!\" said he. \"Your Cohort's the next tower to us, but they're\nall at the cock-fight. This is a happy place. Come and wet the Eagles.\"\nHe meant to offer me a drink.\n\n'\"When I've handed over my men,\" I said. I felt angry and ashamed.\n\n'\"Oh, you'll soon outgrow that sort of nonsense,\" he answered. \"But\ndon't let me interfere with your hopes. Go on to the Statue of Roma Dea.\nYou can't miss it. The main road into Valentia!\" and he laughed and rode\noff. I could see the statue not a quarter of a mile away, and there I\nwent. At some time or other the Great North Road ran under it into\nValentia; but the far end had been blocked up because of the Picts, and\non the plaster a man had scratched, \"Finish!\" It was like marching into\na cave. We grounded spears together, my little thirty, and it echoed in\nthe barrel of the arch, but none came. There was a door at one side\npainted with our number. We prowled in, and I found a cook asleep, and\nordered him to give us food. Then I climbed to the top of the Wall, and\nlooked out over the Pict country, and I--thought,' said Parnesius. 'The\nbricked-up arch with \"Finish!\" on the plaster was what shook me, for I\nwas not much more than a boy.'\n\n'What a shame!' said Una. 'But did you feel happy after you'd had a\ngood----' Dan stopped her with a nudge.\n\n'Happy?' said Parnesius. 'When the men of the Cohort I was to command\ncame back unhelmeted from the cock-fight, their birds under their arms,\nand asked me who I was? No, I was not happy; but I made my new Cohort\nunhappy too ... I wrote my Mother I was happy, but, oh, my friends'--he\nstretched arms over bare knees--'I would not wish my worst enemy to\nsuffer as I suffered through my first months on the Wall. Remember this:\namong the officers was scarcely one, except myself (and I thought I had\nlost the favour of Maximus, my General), scarcely one who had not done\nsomething of wrong or folly. Either he had killed a man, or taken money,\nor insulted the magistrates, or blasphemed the Gods, and so had been\nsent to the Wall as a hiding-place from shame or fear. And the men were\nas the officers. Remember, also, that the Wall was manned by every breed\nand race in the Empire. No two towers spoke the same tongue, or\nworshipped the same Gods. In one thing only we were all equal. No matter\nwhat arms we had used before we came to the Wall, _on_ the Wall we were\nall archers, like the Scythians. The Pict cannot run away from the\narrow, or crawl under it. He is a bowman himself. _He_ knows!'\n\n'I suppose you were fighting Picts all the time,' said Dan.\n\n'Picts seldom fight. I never saw a fighting Pict for half a year. The\ntame Picts told us they had all gone North.'\n\n'What is a tame Pict?' said Dan.\n\n'A Pict--there were many such--who speaks a few words of our tongue, and\nslips across the Wall to sell ponies and wolf-hounds. Without a horse\nand a dog, _and_ a friend, man would perish. The Gods gave me all three,\nand there is no gift like friendship. Remember this'--Parnesius turned\nto Dan--'when you become a young man. For your fate will turn on the\nfirst true friend you make.'\n\n'He means,' said Puck, grinning, 'that if you try to make yourself a\ndecent chap when you're young, you'll make rather decent friends when\nyou grow up. If you're a beast, you'll have beastly friends. Listen to\nthe Pious Parnesius on Friendship!'\n\n'I am not pious,' Parnesius answered, 'but I know what goodness means;\nand my friend, though he was without hope, was ten thousand times better\nthan I. Stop laughing, Faun!'\n\n'Oh, Youth Eternal and All-believing,' cried Puck, as he rocked on the\nbranch above. 'Tell them about your Pertinax.'\n\n'He was that friend the Gods sent me--the boy who spoke to me when I\nfirst came. Little older than myself, commanding the Augusta Victoria\nCohort on the tower next to us and the Numidians. In virtue he was far\nmy superior.'\n\n'Then why was he on the Wall?' Una asked, quickly. 'They'd all done\nsomething bad. You said so yourself.'\n\n'He was the nephew, his Father had died, of a great rich man in Gaul who\nwas not always kind to his Mother. When Pertinax grew up, he discovered\nthis, and so his uncle shipped him off, by trickery and force, to the\nWall. We came to know each other at a ceremony in our Temple--in the\ndark. It was the Bull-Killing,' Parnesius explained to Puck.\n\n'_I_ see, said Puck, and turned to the children. 'That's something you\nwouldn't quite understand. Parnesius means he met Pertinax in church.'\n\n'Yes--in the Cave we first met, and we were both raised to the Degree of\nGryphons together.' Parnesius lifted his hand towards his neck for an\ninstant. 'He had been on the Wall two years, and knew the Picts well. He\ntaught me first how to take Heather.'\n\n'What's that?' said Dan.\n\n'Going out hunting in the Pict country with a tame Pict. You are quite\nsafe so long as you are his guest, and wear a sprig of heather where it\ncan be seen. If you went alone you would surely be killed, if you were\nnot smothered first in the bogs. Only the Picts know their way about\nthose black and hidden bogs. Old Allo, the one-eyed, withered little\nPict from whom we bought our ponies, was our special friend. At first we\nwent only to escape from the terrible town, and to talk together about\nour homes. Then he showed us how to hunt wolves and those great red deer\nwith horns like Jewish candlesticks. The Roman-born officers rather\nlooked down on us for doing this, but we preferred the heather to their\namusements. Believe me,' Parnesius turned again to Dan, 'a boy is safe\nfrom all things that really harm when he is astride a pony or after a\ndeer. Do you remember, O Faun,'--he turned to Puck--'the little altar I\nbuilt to the Sylvan Pan by the pine-forest beyond the brook?'\n\n'Which? The stone one with the line from Xenophon?' said Puck, in quite\na new voice.\n\n'No! What do _I_ know of Xenophon? That was Pertinax--after he had shot\nhis first mountain-hare with an arrow--by chance! Mine I made of round\npebbles, in memory of my first bear. It took me one happy day to build.'\nParnesius faced the children quickly.\n\n'And that was how we lived on the Wall for two years--a little scuffling\nwith the Picts, and a great deal of hunting with old Allo in the Pict\ncountry. He called us his children sometimes, and we were fond of him\nand his barbarians, though we never let them paint us Pict fashion. The\nmarks endure till you die.'\n\n'How's it done?' said Dan. 'Anything like tattooing?'\n\n'They prick the skin till the blood runs, and rub in coloured juices.\nAllo was painted blue, green, and red from his forehead to his ankles.\nHe said it was part of his religion. He told us about his religion\n(Pertinax was always interested in such things), and as we came to know\nhim well, he told us what was happening in Britain behind the Wall. Many\nthings took place behind us in those days. And by the Light of the Sun,'\nsaid Parnesius, earnestly, 'there was not much that those little people\ndid not know! He told me when Maximus crossed over to Gaul, after he had\nmade himself Emperor of Britain, and what troops and emigrants he had\ntaken with him. We did not get the news on the Wall till fifteen days\nlater. He told me what troops Maximus was taking out of Britain every\nmonth to help him to conquer Gaul; and I always found the numbers were\nas he said. Wonderful! And I tell another strange thing!'\n\nHe joined his hands across his knees, and leaned his head on the curve\nof the shield behind him.\n\n'Late in the summer, when the first frosts begin and the Picts kill\ntheir bees, we three rode out after wolf with some new hounds.\nRutilianus, our General, had given us ten days' leave, and we had pushed\nbeyond the Second Wall--beyond the Province of Valentia--into the higher\nhills, where there are not even any of old Rome's ruins. We killed a\nshe-wolf before noon, and while Allo was skinning her he looked up and\nsaid to me, \"When you are Captain of the Wall, my child, you won't be\nable to do this any more!\"\n\n'I might as well have been made Prefect of Lower Gaul, so I laughed and\nsaid, \"Wait till I am Captain.\"\n\n'\"No, don't wait,\" said Allo. \"Take my advice and go home--both of you.\"\n\n'\"We have no homes,\" said Pertinax. \"You know that as well as we do.\nWe're finished men--thumbs down against both of us. Only men without\nhope would risk their necks on your ponies.\" The old man laughed one of\nthose short Pict laughs--like a fox barking on a frosty night. \"I'm fond\nof you two,\" he said. \"Besides, I've taught you what little you know\nabout hunting. Take my advice and go home.\"\n\n'\"We can't,\" I said. \"I'm out of favour with my General, for one thing;\nand for another, Pertinax has an uncle.\"\n\n'\"I don't know about his uncle,\" said Allo, \"but the trouble with you,\nParnesius, is that your General thinks well of you.\"\n\n'\"Roma Dea!\" said Pertinax, sitting up. \"What can you guess what Maximus\nthinks, you old horse-coper?\"\n\n'Just then (you know how near the brutes creep when one is eating?) a\ngreat dog-wolf jumped out behind us, and away our rested hounds tore\nafter him, with us at their tails. He ran us far out of any country we'd\never heard of, straight as an arrow till sunset, towards the sunset. We\ncame at last to long capes stretching into winding waters, and on a grey\nbeach below us we saw ships drawn up. Forty-seven we counted--not Roman\ngalleys but the raven-winged ships from the North where Rome does not\nrule. Men moved in the ships, and the sun flashed on their\nhelmets--winged helmets of the red-haired men from the North where Rome\ndoes not rule. We watched, and we counted, and we wondered, for though\nwe had heard rumours concerning these Winged Hats, as the Picts called\nthem, never before had we looked upon them.\n\n'\"Come away! come away!\" said Allo. \"My Heather won't protect you here.\nWe shall all be killed!\" His legs trembled like his voice. Back we\nwent--back across the heather under the moon, till it was nearly\nmorning, and our poor beasts stumbled on some ruins.\n\n'When we woke, very stiff and cold, Allo was mixing the meal and water.\nOne does not light fires in the Pict country except near a village. The\nlittle men are always signalling to each other with smokes, and a\nstrange smoke brings them out buzzing like bees. They can sting, too!\n\n'\"What we saw last night was a trading-station,\" said Allo. \"Nothing but\na trading-station.\"\n\n'\"I do not like lies on an empty stomach,\" said Pertinax. \"I suppose\"\n(he had eyes like an eagle's)--\"I suppose _that_ is a trading-station\nalso?\" He pointed to a smoke far off on a hill-top, ascending in what we\ncall the Picts' Call:--Puff--double-puff: double-puff--puff! They make\nit by raising and dropping a wet hide on a fire.\n\n'\"No,\" said Allo, pushing the platter back into the bag. \"That is for\nyou and me. Your fate is fixed. Come.\"\n\n'We came. When one takes Heather, one must obey one's Pict--but that\nwretched smoke was twenty miles distant, well over on the East coast,\nand the day was as hot as a bath.\n\n'\"Whatever happens,\" said Allo, while our ponies grunted along, \"I want\nyou to remember me.\"\n\n'\"I shall not forget,\" said Pertinax. \"You have cheated me out of my\nbreakfast.\"\n\n\"What is a handful of crushed oats to a Roman?\" he said. Then he laughed\nhis laugh that was not a laugh.\n\n\"What would _you_ do if _you_ were a handful of oats being crushed\nbetween the upper and lower stones of a mill?\"\n\n'\"I'm Pertinax, not a riddle-guesser,\" said Pertinax.\n\n'\"You're a fool,\" said Allo. \"Your Gods and my Gods are threatened by\nstrange Gods, and all you can do is to laugh.\"\n\n'\"Threatened men live long,\" I said.\n\n'\"I pray the Gods that may be true,\" he said. \"But I ask you again not\nto forget me.\"\n\n'We climbed the last hot hill and looked out on the eastern sea, three\nor four miles off. There was a small sailing-galley of the North Gaul\npattern at anchor, her landing-plank down and her sail half up; and\nbelow us, alone in a hollow, holding his pony, sat Maximus, Emperor of\nBritain! He was dressed like a hunter, and he leaned on his little\nstick; but I knew that back as far as I could see it, and I told\nPertinax.\n\n'\"You're madder than Allo!\" he said. \"It must be the sun!\"\n\n'Maximus never stirred till we stood before him. Then he looked me up\nand down, and said: \"Hungry again? It seems to be my destiny to feed you\nwhenever we meet. I have food here. Allo shall cook it.\"\n\n'\"No,\" said Allo. \"A Prince in his own land does not wait on wandering\nEmperors. I feed my two children without asking your leave.\" He began to\nblow up the ashes.\n\n'\"I was wrong,\" said Pertinax. \"We are all mad. Speak up, O Madman\ncalled Emperor!\"\n\n'Maximus smiled his terrible tight-lipped smile, but two years on the\nWall do not make a man afraid of mere looks. So I was not afraid.\n\n'\"I meant you, Parnesius, to live and die a Centurion of the Wall,\" said\nMaximus. \"But it seems from these,\"--he fumbled in his breast--\"you can\nthink as well as draw.\" He pulled out a roll of letters I had written to\nmy people, full of drawings of Picts, and bears, and men I had met on\nthe Wall. Mother and my sister always liked my pictures.\n\n'He handed me one that I had called \"Maximus's Soldiers\". It showed a\nrow of fat wine-skins, and our old Doctor of the Hunno hospital snuffing\nat them. Each time that Maximus had taken troops out of Britain to help\nhim to conquer Gaul, he used to send the garrisons more wine--to keep\nthem quiet, I suppose. On the Wall, we always called a wine-skin a\n\"Maximus\". Oh, yes; and I had drawn them in Imperial helmets.\n\n'\"Not long since,\" he went on, \"men's names were sent up to Caesar for\nsmaller jokes than this.\"\n\n'\"True, Caesar,\" said Pertinax; \"but you forget that was before I, your\nfriend's friend, became such a good spear-thrower.\"\n\n'He did not actually point his hunting-spear at Maximus, but balanced it\non his palm--so!\n\n'\"I was speaking of time past,\" said Maximus, never fluttering an\neyelid. \"Nowadays one is only too pleased to find boys who can think for\nthemselves, _and_ their friends.\" He nodded at Pertinax. \"Your Father\nlent me the letters, Parnesius, so you run no risk from me.\"\n\n'\"None whatever,\" said Pertinax, and rubbed the spear-point on his\nsleeve.\n\n'\"I have been forced to reduce the garrisons in Britain, because I need\ntroops in Gaul. Now I come to take troops from the Wall itself,\" said\nhe.\n\n'\"I wish you joy of us,\" said Pertinax. \"We're the last sweepings of the\nEmpire--the men without hope. Myself, I'd sooner trust condemned\ncriminals.\"\n\n'\"You think so?\" he said, quite seriously. \"But it will only be till I\nwin Gaul. One must always risk one's life, or one's soul, or one's\npeace--or some little thing.\"\n\n'Allo passed round the fire with the sizzling deer's meat. He served us\ntwo first.\n\n'\"Ah!\" said Maximus, waiting his turn. \"I perceive you are in your own\ncountry. Well, you deserve it. They tell me you have quite a following\namong the Picts, Parnesius.\"\n\n'\"I have hunted with them,\" I said. \"Maybe I have a few friends among\nthe Heather.\"\n\n'\"He is the only armoured man of you all who understands us,\" said Allo,\nand he began a long speech about our virtues, and how we had saved one\nof his grandchildren from a wolf the year before.'\n\n'Had you?' said Una.\n\n'Yes; but that was neither here nor there. The little green man orated\nlike a--like Cicero. He made us out to be magnificent fellows. Maximus\nnever took his eyes off our faces.\n\n'\"Enough,\" he said. \"I have heard Allo on you. I wish to hear you on the\nPicts.\"\n\n'I told him as much as I knew, and Pertinax helped me out. There is\nnever harm in a Pict if you but take the trouble to find out what he\nwants. Their real grievance against us came from our burning their\nheather. The whole garrison of the Wall moved out twice a year, and\nsolemnly burned the heather for ten miles North. Rutilianus, our\nGeneral, called it clearing the country. The Picts, of course, scampered\naway, and all we did was to destroy their bee-bloom in the summer, and\nruin their sheep-food in the spring.\n\n'\"True, quite true,\" said Allo. \"How can we make our holy heather-wine,\nif you burn our bee-pasture?\"\n\n'We talked long, Maximus asking keen questions that showed he knew much\nand had thought more about the Picts. He said presently to me: \"If I\ngave you the old Province of Valentia to govern, could you keep the\nPicts contented till I won Gaul? Stand away, so that you do not see\nAllo's face; and speak your own thoughts.\"\n\n'\"No,\" I said. \"You cannot remake that Province. The Picts have been\nfree too long.\"\n\n'\"Leave them their village councils, and let them furnish their own\nsoldiers,\" he said. \"You, I am sure, would hold the reins very lightly.\"\n\n\"Even then, no,\" I said. \"At least not now. They have been too oppressed\nby us to trust anything with a Roman name for years and years.\"\n\n'I heard old Allo behind me mutter: \"Good child!\"\n\n'\"Then what do you recommend,\" said Maximus, \"to keep the North quiet\ntill I win Gaul?\"\n\n'\"Leave the Picts alone,\" I said. \"Stop the heather-burning at once,\nand--they are improvident little animals--send them a shipload or two of\ncorn now and then.\"\n\n'\"Their own men must distribute it--not some cheating Greek accountant,\"\nsaid Pertinax.\n\n'\"Yes, and allow them to come to our hospitals when they are sick,\" I\nsaid.\n\n'\"Surely they would die first,\" said Maximus.\n\n'\"Not if Parnesius brought them in,\" said Allo. \"I could show you twenty\nwolf-bitten, bear-clawed Picts within twenty miles of here. But\nParnesius must stay with them in hospital, else they would go mad with\nfear.\"\n\n'\"I see,\" said Maximus. \"Like everything else in the world, it is one\nman's work. You, I think, are that one man.\"\n\n'\"Pertinax and I are one,\" I said.\n\n'\"As you please, so long as you work. Now, Allo, you know that I mean\nyour people no harm. Leave us to talk together,\" said Maximus.\n\n'\"No need!\" said Allo. \"I am the corn between the upper and lower\nmillstones. I must know what the lower millstone means to do. These boys\nhave spoken the truth as far as they know it. I, a Prince, will tell you\nthe rest. I am troubled about the Men of the North.\" He squatted like a\nhare in the heather, and looked over his shoulder.\n\n'\"I also,\" said Maximus, \"or I should not be here.\"\n\n'\"Listen,\" said Allo. \"Long and long ago the Winged Hats\"--he meant the\nNorthmen--\"came to our beaches and said, 'Rome falls! Push her down!' We\nfought you. You sent men. We were beaten. After that we said to the\nWinged Hats, 'You are liars! Make our men alive that Rome killed, and we\nwill believe you.' They went away ashamed. Now they come back bold, and\nthey tell the old tale, which we begin to believe--that Rome falls!\"\n\n'\"Give me three years' peace on the Wall,\" cried Maximus, \"and I will\nshow you and all the ravens how they lie!\"\n\n'\"Ah, I wish it too! I wish to save what is left of the corn from the\nmillstones. But you shoot us Picts when we come to borrow a little iron\nfrom the Iron Ditch; you burn our heather, which is all our crop; you\ntrouble us with your great catapults. Then you hide behind the Wall, and\nscorch us with Greek fire. How can I keep my young men from listening to\nthe Winged Hats--in winter especially, when we are hungry? My young men\nwill say, 'Rome can neither fight nor rule. She is taking her men out of\nBritain. The Winged Hats will help us to push down the Wall. Let us show\nthem the secret roads across the bogs.' Do _I_ want that? No!\" He spat\nlike an adder. \"I would keep the secrets of my people though I were\nburned alive. My two children here have spoken truth. Leave us Picts\nalone. Comfort us, and cherish us, and feed us from far off--with the\nhand behind the back. Parnesius understands us. Let _him_ have rule on\nthe Wall, and I will hold my young men quiet for\"--he ticked it off on\nhis fingers--\"one year easily: the next year not so easily: the third\nyear, perhaps! See, I give you three years. If then you do not show us\nthat Rome is strong in men and terrible in arms, the Winged Hats, I tell\nyou, will sweep down the Wall from either sea till they meet in the\nmiddle, and you will go. _I_ shall not grieve over that, but well I know\ntribe never helps tribe except for one price. We Picts will go too. The\nWinged Hats will grind us to this!\" He tossed a handful of dust in the\nair.\n\n'\"Oh, Roma Dea!\" said Maximus, half aloud. \"It is always one man's\nwork--always and everywhere!\"\n\n\"And one man's life,\" said Allo. \"You are Emperor, but not a God. You\nmay die.\"\n\n'\"I have thought of that too,\" said he. \"Very good. If this wind holds,\nI shall be at the East end of the Wall by morning. To-morrow, then, I\nshall see you two when I inspect, and I will make you Captains of the\nWall for this work.\"\n\n'\"One instant, Caesar,\" said Pertinax. \"All men have their price. I am\nnot bought yet.\"\n\n'\"Do _you_ also begin to bargain so early?\" said Maximus. \"Well?\"\n\n'\"Give me justice against my uncle Icenus, the Duumvir of Divio in\nGaul,\" he said.\n\n'\"Only a life? I thought it would be money or an office. Certainly you\nshall have him. Write his name on these tablets--on the red side; the\nother is for the living!\" and Maximus held out his tablets.\n\n'\"He is of no use to me dead,\" said Pertinax. \"My mother is a widow. I\nam far off. I am not sure he pays her all her dowry.\"\n\n'\"No matter. My arm is reasonably long. We will look through your\nuncle's accounts in due time. Now, farewell till to-morrow, O Captains\nof the Wall!\"\n\n'We saw him grow small across the heather as he walked to the galley.\nThere were Picts, scores, each side of him, hidden behind stones. He\nnever looked left or right. He sailed away southerly, full spread before\nthe evening breeze, and when we had watched him out to sea, we were\nsilent. We understood that Earth bred few men like to this man.\n\n'Presently Allo brought the ponies and held them for us to mount--a\nthing he had never done before.\n\n'\"Wait awhile,\" said Pertinax, and he made a little altar of cut turf,\nand strewed heather-bloom atop, and laid upon it a letter from a girl in\nGaul.\n\n'\"What do you do, O my friend?\" I said.\n\n'\"I sacrifice to my dead youth,\" he answered, and, when the flames had\nconsumed the letter, he ground them out with his heel. Then we rode back\nto that Wall of which we were to be Captains.'\n\nParnesius stopped. The children sat still, not even asking if that were\nall the tale. Puck beckoned, and pointed the way out of the wood.\n'Sorry,' he whispered, 'but you must go now.'\n\n'We haven't made him angry, have we?' said Una. 'He looks so far off,\nand--and--thinky.'\n\n'Bless your heart, no. Wait till tomorrow. It won't be long. Remember,\nyou've been playing _Lays of Ancient Rome_.'\n\nAnd as soon as they had scrambled through their gap where Oak, Ash, and\nThorn grew, that was all they remembered.\n\n\n\nA SONG TO MITHRAS\n\n\nMithras, God of the Morning, our trumpets waken the Wall!\n'Rome is above the Nations, but Thou art over all!'\nNow as the names are answered, and the guards are marched away,\nMithras, also a soldier, give us strength for the day!\n\nMithras, God of the Noontide, the heather swims in the heat,\nOur helmets scorch our foreheads, our sandals burn our feet.\nNow in the ungirt hour; now ere we blink and drowse,\nMithras, also a soldier, keep us true to our vows!\n\nMithras, God of the Sunset, low on the Western main,\nThou descending immortal, immortal to rise again!\nNow when the watch is ended, now when the wine is drawn,\nMithras, also a soldier, keep us pure till the dawn!\n\nMithras, God of the Midnight, here where the great bull dies,\nLook on Thy children in darkness. Oh, take our sacrifice!\nMany roads Thou hast fashioned: all of them lead to the Light!\nMithras, also a soldier, teach us to die aright!\n\n\n\n\nTHE WINGED HATS\n\n\n\nThe next day happened to be what they called a Wild Afternoon. Father\nand Mother went out to pay calls; Miss Blake went for a ride on her\nbicycle, and they were left all alone till eight o'clock.\n\nWhen they had seen their dear parents and their dear preceptress\npolitely off the premises they got a cabbage-leaf full of raspberries\nfrom the gardener, and a Wild Tea from Ellen. They ate the raspberries\nto prevent their squashing, and they meant to divide the cabbage-leaf\nwith Three Cows down at the Theatre, but they came across a dead\nhedgehog which they simply _had_ to bury, and the leaf was too useful to\nwaste.\n\nThen they went on to the Forge and found old Hobden the hedger at home\nwith his son, the Bee Boy, who is not quite right in his head, but who\ncan pick up swarms of bees in his naked hands; and the Bee Boy told them\nthe rhyme about the slow-worm:--\n\n'If I had eyes _as_ I could see,\nNo mortal man would trouble me.'\n\nThey all had tea together by the hives, and Hobden said the loaf-cake\nwhich Ellen had given them was almost as good as what his wife used to\nmake, and he showed them how to set a wire at the right height for\nhares. They knew about rabbits already.\n\nThen they climbed up Long Ditch into the lower end of Far Wood. This is\nsadder and darker than the Volaterrae end because of an old marlpit full\nof black water, where weepy, hairy moss hangs round the stumps of the\nwillows and alders. But the birds come to perch on the dead branches,\nand Hobden says that the bitter willow-water is a sort of medicine for\nsick animals.\n\nThey sat down on a felled oak-trunk in the shadows of the beech\nundergrowth, and were looping the wires Hobden had given them, when they\nsaw Parnesius.\n\n'How quietly you came!' said Una, moving up to make room. 'Where's Puck?'\n\n'The Faun and I have disputed whether it is better that I should tell\nyou all my tale, or leave it untold,' he replied.\n\n'I only said that if he told it as it happened you wouldn't understand\nit,' said Puck, jumping up like a squirrel from behind the log.\n\n'I don't understand all of it,' said Una, 'but I like hearing about the\nlittle Picts.'\n\n'What I can't understand,' said Dan, 'is how Maximus knew all about the\nPicts when he was over in Gaul.'\n\n'He who makes himself Emperor anywhere must know everything,\neverywhere,' said Parnesius. 'We had this much from Maximus's mouth\nafter the Games.'\n\n'Games? What Games?' said Dan.\n\nParnesius stretched his arm out stiffly, thumb pointed to the ground.\n'Gladiators! _That_ sort of game,' he said. 'There were two days' Games\nin his honour when he landed all unexpected at Segedunum on the East end\nof the Wall. Yes, the day after we had met him we held two days' Games;\nbut I think the greatest risk was run, not by the poor wretches on the\nsand, but by Maximus. In the old days the Legions kept silence before\ntheir Emperor. So did not we! You could hear the solid roar run West\nalong the Wall as his chair was carried rocking through the crowds. The\ngarrison beat round him--clamouring, clowning, asking for pay, for\nchange of quarters, for anything that came into their wild heads. That\nchair was like a little boat among waves, dipping and falling, but\nalways rising again after one had shut the eyes.' Parnesius shivered.\n\n'Were they angry with him?' said Dan.\n\n'No more angry than wolves in a cage when their trainer walks among\nthem. If he had turned his back an instant, or for an instant had ceased\nto hold their eyes, there would have been another Emperor made on the\nWall that hour. Was it not so, Faun?'\n\n'So it was. So it always will be,' said Puck.\n\n'Late in the evening his messenger came for us, and we followed to the\nTemple of Victory, where he lodged with Rutilianus, the General of the\nWall. I had hardly seen the General before, but he always gave me leave\nwhen I wished to take Heather. He was a great glutton, and kept five\nAsian cooks, and he came of a family that believed in oracles. We could\nsmell his good dinner when we entered, but the tables were empty. He lay\nsnorting on a couch. Maximus sat apart among long rolls of accounts.\nThen the doors were shut.\n\n'\"These are your men,\" said Maximus to the General, who propped his\neye-corners open with his gouty fingers, and stared at us like a fish.\n\n'\"I shall know them again, Caesar,\" said Rutilianus.\n\n\"Very good,\" said Maximus. \"Now hear! You are not to move man or shield\non the Wall except as these boys shall tell you. You will do nothing,\nexcept eat, without their permission. They are the head and arms. You\nare the belly!\"\n\n'\"As Caesar pleases,\" the old man grunted. \"If my pay and profits are not\ncut, you may make my Ancestors' Oracle my master. Rome has been! Rome\nhas been!\" Then he turned on his side to sleep.\n\n'\"He has it,\" said Maximus. \"We will get to what _I_ need.\"\n\n'He unrolled full copies of the number of men and supplies on the\nWall--down to the sick that very day in Hunno Hospital. Oh, but I\ngroaned when his pen marked off detachment after detachment of our\nbest--of our least worthless men! He took two towers of our Scythians,\ntwo of our North British auxiliaries, two Numidian cohorts, the Dacians\nall, and half the Belgians. It was like an eagle pecking a carcass.\n\n'\"And now, how many catapults have you?\" He turned up a new list, but\nPertinax laid his open hand there.\n\n'\"No, Caesar,\" said he. \"Do not tempt the Gods too far. Take men, or\nengines, but not both; else we refuse.\"'\n\n'Engines?' said Una.\n\n'The catapults of the Wall--huge things forty feet high to the\nhead--firing nets of raw stone or forged bolts. Nothing can stand\nagainst them. He left us our catapults at last, but he took a Caesar's\nhalf of our men without pity. We were a shell when he rolled up the\nlists!\n\n'\"Hail, Caesar! We, about to die, salute you!\" said Pertinax, laughing.\n\"If any enemy even leans against the Wall now, it will tumble.\"\n\n'\"Give me the three years Allo spoke of,\" he answered, \"and you shall\nhave twenty thousand men of your own choosing up here. But now it is a\ngamble--a game played against the Gods, and the stakes are Britain,\nGaul, and perhaps Rome. You play on my side?\"\n\n'\"We will play, Caesar,\" I said, for I had never met a man like this man.\n\n'\"Good. Tomorrow,\" said he, \"I proclaim you Captains of the Wall before\nthe troops.\"\n\n'So we went into the moonlight, where they were cleaning the ground\nafter the Games. We saw great Roma Dea atop of the Wall, the frost on\nher helmet, and her spear pointed towards the North Star. We saw the\ntwinkle of night-fires all along the guard towers, and the line of the\nblack catapults growing smaller and smaller in the distance. All these\nthings we knew till we were weary; but that night they seemed very\nstrange to us, because the next day we knew we were to be their masters.\n\n'The men took the news well; but when Maximus went away with half our\nstrength, and we had to spread ourselves into the emptied towers, and\nthe townspeople complained that trade would be ruined, and the autumn\ngales blew--it was dark days for us two. Here Pertinax was more than my\nright hand. Being born and bred among the great country-houses in Gaul,\nhe knew the proper words to address to all--from Roman-born Centurions\nto those dogs of the Third--the Libyans. And he spoke to each as though\nthat man were as high-minded as himself. Now _I_ saw so strongly what\nthings were needed to be done, that I forgot things are only\naccomplished by means of men. That was a mistake.\n\n'I feared nothing from the Picts, at least for that year, but Allo\nwarned me that the Winged Hats would soon come in from the sea at each\nend of the Wall to prove to the Picts how weak we were. So I made ready\nin haste, and none too soon. I shifted our best men to the ends of the\nWall, and set up screened catapults by the beach. The Winged Hats would\ndrive in before the snow-squalls--ten or twenty boats at a time--on\nSegedunum or Ituna, according as the wind blew.\n\n'Now a ship coming in to land men must furl her sail. If you wait till\nyou see her men gather up the sail's foot, your catapults can jerk a net\nof loose stones (bolts only cut through the cloth) into the bag of it.\nThen she turns over, and the sea makes everything clean again. A few men\nmay come ashore, but very few. ... It was not hard work, except the\nwaiting on the beach in blowing sand and snow. And that was how we dealt\nwith the Winged Hats that winter.\n\n'Early in the spring, when the East winds blow like skinning-knives,\nthey gathered again off Segedunum with many ships. Allo told me they\nwould never rest till they had taken a tower in open fight. Certainly\nthey fought in the open. We dealt with them thoroughly through a long\nday: and when all was finished, one man dived clear of the wreckage of\nhis ship, and swam towards shore. I waited, and a wave tumbled him at my\nfeet.\n\n'As I stooped, I saw he wore such a medal as I wear.' Parnesius raised\nhis hand to his neck. 'Therefore, when he could speak, I addressed him a\ncertain Question which can only be answered in a certain manner. He\nanswered with the necessary Word--the Word that belongs to the Degree of\nGryphons in the science of Mithras my God. I put my shield over him till\nhe could stand up. You see I am not short, but he was a head taller than\nI. He said: \"What now?\" I said: \"At your pleasure, my brother, to stay\nor go.\"\n\n'He looked out across the surf. There remained one ship unhurt, beyond\nrange of our catapults. I checked the catapults and he waved her in.\nShe came as a hound comes to a master. When she was yet a hundred paces\nfrom the beach, he flung back his hair, and swam out. They hauled him\nin, and went away. I knew that those who worship Mithras are many and of\nall races, so I did not think much more upon the matter.\n\n'A month later I saw Allo with his horses--by the Temple of Pan, O\nFaun--and he gave me a great necklace of gold studded with coral.\n\n'At first I thought it was a bribe from some tradesman in the\ntown--meant for old Rutilianus. \"Nay,\" said Allo. \"This is a gift from\nAmal, that Winged Hat whom you saved on the beach. He says you are a\nMan.\"\n\n'\"He is a Man, too. Tell him I can wear his gift,\" I answered.\n\n'\"Oh, Amal is a young fool; but, speaking as sensible men, your Emperor\nis doing such great things in Gaul that the Winged Hats are anxious to\nbe his friends, or, better still, the friends of his servants. They\nthink you and Pertinax could lead them to victories.\" Allo looked at me\nlike a one-eyed raven.\n\n'\"Allo,\" I said, \"you are the corn between the two millstones. Be\ncontent if they grind evenly, and don't thrust your hand between them.\"\n\n'\"I?\" said Allo. \"I hate Rome and the Winged Hats equally; but if the\nWinged Hats thought that some day you and Pertinax might join them\nagainst Maximus, they would leave you in peace while you considered.\nTime is what we need--you and I and Maximus. Let me carry a pleasant\nmessage back to the Winged Hats--something for them to make a council\nover. We barbarians are all alike. We sit up half the night to discuss\nanything a Roman says. Eh?\"\n\n'\"We have no men. We must fight with words,\" said Pertinax. \"Leave it to\nAllo and me.\"\n\n'So Allo carried word back to the Winged Hats that we would not fight\nthem if they did not fight us; and they (I think they were a little\ntired of losing men in the sea) agreed to a sort of truce. I believe\nAllo, who being a horse-dealer loved lies, also told them we might some\nday rise against Maximus as Maximus had risen against Rome.\n\n'Indeed, they permitted the corn-ships which I sent to the Picts to pass\nNorth that season without harm. Therefore the Picts were well fed that\nwinter, and since they were in some sort my children, I was glad of it.\nWe had only two thousand men on the Wall, and I wrote many times to\nMaximus and begged--prayed--him to send me only one cohort of my old\nNorth British troops. He could not spare them. He needed them to win\nmore victories in Gaul.\n\n'Then came news that he had defeated and slain the Emperor Gratian, and\nthinking he must now be secure, I wrote again for men. He answered: \"You\nwill learn that I have at last settled accounts with the pup Gratian.\nThere was no need that he should have died, but he became confused and\nlost his head, which is a bad thing to befall any Emperor. Tell your\nFather I am content to drive two mules only; for unless my old General's\nson thinks himself destined to destroy me, I shall rest Emperor of Gaul\nand Britain, and then you, my two children, will presently get all the\nmen you need. Just now I can spare none.\"'\n\n'What did he mean by his General's son?' said Dan.\n\n'He meant Theodosius Emperor of Rome, who was the son of Theodosius the\nGeneral under whom Maximus had fought in the old Pict War. The two men\nnever loved each other, and when Gratian made the younger Theodosius\nEmperor of the East (at least, so I've heard), Maximus carried on the\nwar to the second generation. It was his fate, and it was his fall. But\nTheodosius the Emperor is a good man. As I know.' Parnesius was silent\nfor a moment and then continued.\n\n'I wrote back to Maximus that, though we had peace on the Wall, I should\nbe happier with a few more men and some new catapults. He answered: \"You\nmust live a little longer under the shadow of my victories, till I can\nsee what young Theodosius intends. He may welcome me as a\nbrother-Emperor, or he may be preparing an army. In either case I cannot\nspare men just now.\"\n\n'But he was always saying that,' cried Una.\n\n'It was true. He did not make excuses; but thanks, as he said, to the\nnews of his victories, we had no trouble on the Wall for a long, long\ntime. The Picts grew fat as their own sheep among the heather, and as\nmany of my men as lived were well exercised in their weapons. Yes, the\nWall looked strong. For myself, I knew how weak we were. I knew that if\neven a false rumour of any defeat to Maximus broke loose among the\nWinged Hats, they might come down in earnest, and then--the Wall must\ngo! For the Picts I never cared, but in those years I learned something\nof the strength of the Winged Hats. They increased their strength every\nday, but I could not increase my men. Maximus had emptied Britain behind\nus, and I felt myself to be a man with a rotten stick standing before a\nbroken fence to turn bulls.\n\n'Thus, my friends, we lived on the Wall, waiting--waiting--waiting for\nthe men that Maximus never sent.\n\n'Presently he wrote that he was preparing an army against Theodosius. He\nwrote--and Pertinax read it over my shoulder in our quarters: \"_Tell\nyour Father that my destiny orders me to drive three mules or be torn in\npieces by them. I hope within a year to finish with Theodosius, son of\nTheodosius, once and for all. Then you shall have Britain to rule, and\nPertinax, if he chooses, Gaul. To-day I wish strongly you were with me\nto beat my Auxiliaries into shape. Do not, I pray you, believe any\nrumour of my sickness. I have a little evil in my old body which I shall\ncure by riding swiftly into Rome._\"\n\n'Said Pertinax: \"It is finished with Maximus. He writes as a man without\nhope. I, a man without hope, can see this. What does he add at the\nbottom of the roll? '_Tell Pertinax I have met his late Uncle, the\nDuumvir of Divio, and that he accounted to me quite truthfully for all\nhis Mother's monies. I have sent her with a fitting escort, for she is\nthe mother of a hero, to Nicaea, where the climate is warm_.'\n\n'\"That is proof,\" said Pertinax. \"Nicaea is not far by sea from Rome. A\nwoman there could take ship and fly to Rome in time of war. Yes, Maximus\nforesees his death, and is fulfilling his promises one by one. But I am\nglad my uncle met him.\"'\n\n'\"You think blackly to-day?\" I asked.\n\n'\"I think truth. The Gods weary of the play we have played against them.\nTheodosius will destroy Maximus. It is finished!\"\n\n'\"Will you write him that?\" I said.\n\n'\"See what I shall write,\" he answered, and he took pen and wrote a\nletter cheerful as the light of day, tender as a woman's and full of\njests. Even I, reading over his shoulder, took comfort from it till--I\nsaw his face!\n\n'\"And now,\" he said, sealing it, \"we be two dead men, my brother. Let us\ngo to the Temple.\"\n\n'We prayed awhile to Mithras, where we had many times prayed before.\nAfter that, we lived day by day among evil rumours till winter came\nagain.\n\n'It happened one morning that we rode to the East shore, and found on\nthe beach a fair-haired man, half frozen, bound to some broken planks.\nTurning him over, we saw by his belt-buckle that he was a Goth of an\nEastern Legion. Suddenly he opened his eyes and cried loudly, \"He is\ndead! The letters were with me, but the Winged Hats sank the ship.\" So\nsaying, he died between our hands.\n\n'We asked not who was dead. We knew! We raced before the driving snow to\nHunno, thinking perhaps Allo might be there. We found him already at our\nstables, and he saw by our faces what we had heard.\n\n'\"It was in a tent by the sea,\" he stammered. \"He was beheaded by\nTheodosius. He sent a letter to you, written while he waited to be\nslain. The Winged Hats met the ship and took it. The news is running\nthrough the heather like fire. Blame me not! I cannot hold back my young\nmen any more.\"\n\n'\"I would we could say as much for our men,\" said Pertinax, laughing.\n\"But, Gods be praised, they cannot run away.\"\n\n'\"What do you do?\" said Allo. \"I bring an order--a message--from the\nWinged Hats that you join them with your men, and march South to plunder\nBritain.\"\n\n'\"It grieves me,\" said Pertinax, \"but we are stationed here to stop that\nthing.\"\n\n'\"If I carry back such an answer they will kill me,\" said Allo. \"I\nalways promised the Winged Hats that you would rise when Maximus fell.\nI--I did not think he could fall.\"\n\n'\"Alas! my poor barbarian,\" said Pertinax, still laughing. \"Well, you\nhave sold us too many good ponies to be thrown back to your friends. We\nwill make you a prisoner, although you are an ambassador.\"\n\n'\"Yes, that will be best,\" said Allo, holding out a halter. We bound him\nlightly, for he was an old man.\n\n'\"Presently the Winged Hats may come to look for you, and that will give\nus more time. See how the habit of playing for time sticks to a man!\"\nsaid Pertinax, as he tied the rope.\n\n'\"No,\" I said. \"Time may help. If Maximus wrote us a letter while he was\na prisoner, Theodosius must have sent the ship that brought it. If he\ncan send ships, he can send men.\"\n\n'\"How will that profit us?\" said Pertinax. \"We serve Maximus, not\nTheodosius. Even if by some miracle of the Gods Theodosius down South\nsent and saved the Wall, we could not expect more than the death Maximus\ndied.\"\n\n'\"It concerns us to defend the Wall, no matter what Emperor dies, or\nmakes die,\" I said.\n\n'\"That is worthy of your brother the philosopher,\" said Pertinax.\n\"Myself I am without hope, so I do not say solemn and stupid things!\nRouse the Wall!\"\n\n'We armed the Wall from end to end; we told the officers that there was\na rumour of Maximus's death which might bring down the Winged Hats, but\nwe were sure, even if it were true, that Theodosius, for the sake of\nBritain, would send us help. Therefore, we must stand fast. ... My\nfriends, it is above all things strange to see how men bear ill news!\nOften the strongest till then become the weakest, while the weakest, as\nit were, reach up and steal strength from the Gods. So it was with us.\nYet my Pertinax by his jests and his courtesy and his labours had put\nheart and training into our poor numbers during the past years--more\nthan I should have thought possible. Even our Libyan Cohort--the\nThird--stood up in their padded cuirasses and did not whimper.\n\n'In three days came seven chiefs and elders of the Winged Hats. Among\nthem was that tall young man, Amal, whom I had met on the beach, and he\nsmiled when he saw my necklace. We made them welcome, for they were\nambassadors. We showed them Allo, alive but bound. They thought we had\nkilled him, and I saw it would not have vexed them if we had. Allo saw\nit too, and it vexed him. Then in our quarters at Hunno we came to\nCouncil.\n\n'They said that Rome was falling, and that we must join them. They\noffered me all South Britain to govern after they had taken a tribute\nout of it.\n\n'I answered, \"Patience. This Wall is not weighed off like plunder. Give\nme proof that my General is dead.\"\n\n'\"Nay,\" said one elder, \"prove to us that he lives\"; and another said\ncunningly, \"What will you give us if we read you his last words?\"\n\n'\"We are not merchants to bargain,\" cried Amal. \"Moreover, I owe this\nman my life. He shall have his proof.\" He threw across to me a letter\n(well I knew the seal) from Maximus.\n\n'\"We took this out of the ship we sank,\" he cried. \"I cannot read, but I\nknow one sign, at least, which makes me believe.\" He showed me a dark\nstain on the outer roll that my heavy heart perceived was the valiant\nblood of Maximus.\n\n'\"Read!\" said Amal. \"Read, and then let us hear whose servants you are!\"\n\n'Said Pertinax, very softly, after he had looked through it: \"I will\nread it all. Listen, barbarians!\" He read that which I have carried next\nmy heart ever since.'\n\nParnesius drew from his neck a folded and spotted piece of parchment,\nand began in a hushed voice:--\n\n'\"_To Parnesius and Pertinax, the not unworthy Captains of the Wall,\nfrom Maximus, once Emperor of Gaul and Britain, now prisoner waiting\ndeath by the sea in the camp of Theodosius--Greeting and Good-bye!_\"\n\n'\"Enough,\" said young Amal; \"there is your proof! You must join us now!\"\n\n'Pertinax looked long and silently at him, till that fair man blushed\nlike a girl. Then read Pertinax:--\n\n'\"_I have joyfully done much evil in my life to those who have wished me\nevil, but if ever I did any evil to you two I repent, and I ask your\nforgiveness. The three mules which I strove to drive have torn me in\npieces as your Father prophesied. The naked swords wait at the tent door\nto give me the death I gave to Gratian. Therefore I, your General and\nyour emperor, send you free and honourable dismissal from my service,\nwhich you entered, not for money or office, but, as it makes me warm to\nbelieve, because you loved me!_\"\n\n'\"By the Light of the Sun,\" Amal broke in. \"This was in some sort a Man!\nWe may have been mistaken in his servants!\"\n\n'And Pertinax read on: \"_You gave me the time for which I asked. If I\nhave failed to use it, do not lament. We have gambled very splendidly\nagainst the Gods, but they hold weighted dice, and I must pay the\nforfeit. Remember, I have been; but Rome is; and Rome will be. Tell\nPertinax his Mother is in safety at Nicaea, and her monies are in charge\nof the Prefect at Antipolis. Make my remembrances to your Father and to\nyour Mother, whose friendship was great gain to me. Give also to my\nlittle Picts and to the Winged Hats such messages as their thick heads\ncan understand. I would have sent you three Legions this very day if all\nhad gone aright. Do not forget me. We have worked together. Farewell!\nFarewell! Farewell!_\"\n\n'Now, that was my Emperor's last letter.' (The children heard the\nparchment crackle as Parnesius returned it to its place.)\n\n'\"I was mistaken,\" said Amal. \"The servants of such a man will sell\nnothing except over the sword. I am glad of it.\" He held out his hand to\nme.\n\n'\"But Maximus has given you your dismissal,\" said an elder. \"You are\ncertainly free to serve--or to rule--whom you please. Join--do not\nfollow--join us!\"\n\n'\"We thank you,\" said Pertinax. \"But Maximus tells us to give you such\nmessages as--pardon me, but I use his words--your thick heads can\nunderstand.\" He pointed through the door to the foot of a catapult wound\nup.\n\n'\"We understand,\" said an elder. \"The Wall must be won at a price?\"\n\n'\"It grieves me,\" said Pertinax, laughing, \"but so it must be won,\" and\nhe gave them of our best Southern wine.\n\n'They drank, and wiped their yellow beards in silence till they rose to\ngo.\n\n'Said Amal, stretching himself (for they were barbarians): \"We be a\ngoodly company; I wonder what the ravens and the dogfish will make of\nsome of us before this snow melts.\"\n\n'\"Think rather what Theodosius may send,\" I answered; and though they\nlaughed, I saw that my chance shot troubled them.\n\n'Only old Allo lingered behind a little.\n\n'\"You see,\" he said, winking and blinking, \"I am no more than their dog.\nWhen I have shown their men the secret short ways across our bogs, they\nwill kick me like one.\"\n\n'\"Then I should not be in haste to show them those ways,\" said Pertinax,\n\"till I was sure that Rome could not save the Wall.\"\n\n'\"You think so? Woe is me!\" said the old man. \"I only wanted peace for\nmy people,\" and he went out stumbling through the snow behind the tall\nWinged Hats.\n\n'In this fashion then, slowly, a day at a time, which is very bad for\ndoubting troops, the War came upon us. At first the Winged Hats swept in\nfrom the sea as they had done before, and there we met them as\nbefore--with the catapults; and they sickened of it. Yet for a long time\nthey would not trust their duck-legs on land, and I think, when it came\nto revealing the secrets of the tribe, the little Picts were afraid or\nashamed to show them all the roads across the heather. I had this from a\nPict prisoner. They were as much our spies as our enemies, for the\nWinged Hats oppressed them, and took their winter stores. Ah, foolish\nLittle People!\n\n'Then the Winged Hats began to roll us up from each end of the Wall. I\nsent runners Southward to see what the news might be in Britain, but the\nwolves were very bold that winter, among the deserted stations where the\ntroops had once been, and none came back. We had trouble, too, with the\nforage for the ponies along the Wall. I kept ten, and so did Pertinax.\nWe lived and slept in the saddle, riding east or west, and we ate our\nworn-out ponies. The people of the town also made us some trouble till I\ngathered them all in one quarter behind Hunno. We broke down the Wall on\neither side of it to make as it were a citadel. Our men fought better in\nclose order.\n\n'By the end of the second month we were deep in the War as a man is deep\nin a snowdrift, or in a dream. I think we fought in our sleep. At least\nI know I have gone on the Wall and come off again, remembering nothing\nbetween, though my throat was harsh with giving orders, and my sword, I\ncould see, had been used.\n\n'The Winged Hats fought like wolves--all in a pack. Where they had\nsuffered most, there they charged in most hotly. This was hard for the\ndefenders, but it held them from sweeping on into Britain.\n\n'In those days Pertinax and I wrote on the plaster of the bricked\narchway into Valentia the names of the towers, and the days on which\nthey fell one by one. We wished for some record.\n\n'And the fighting? The fight was always hottest to left and right of the\ngreat statue of Roma Dea, near to Rutilianus's house. By the Light of\nthe Sun, that old fat man, whom we had not considered at all, grew young\nagain among the trumpets! I remember he said his sword was an oracle!\n\"Let us consult the Oracle,\" he would say, and put the handle against\nhis ear, and shake his head wisely. \"And _this_ day is allowed\nRutilianus to live,\" he would say, and, tucking up his cloak, he would\npuff and pant and fight well. Oh, there were jests in plenty on the Wall\nto take the place of food!\n\n'We endured for two months and seventeen days--always being pressed from\nthree sides into a smaller space. Several times Allo sent in word that\nhelp was at hand. We did not believe it, but it cheered our men. 'The\nend came not with shoutings of joy, but, like the rest, as in a dream.\nThe Winged Hats suddenly left us in peace for one night and the next\nday; which is too long for spent men. We slept at first lightly,\nexpecting to be roused, and then like logs, each where he lay. May you\nnever need such sleep! When I waked our towers were full of strange,\narmed men, who watched us snoring. I roused Pertinax, and we leaped up\ntogether.\n\n'\"What?\" said a young man in clean armour. \"Do you fight against\nTheodosius? Look!\"\n\n'North we looked over the red snow. No Winged Hats were there. South we\nlooked over the white snow, and behold there were the Eagles of two\nstrong Legions encamped. East and west we saw flame and fighting, but by\nHunno all was still.\n\n'\"Trouble no more,\" said the young man. \"Rome's arm is long. Where are\nthe Captains of the Wall?\"\n\n'We said we were those men.\n\n'\"But you are old and grey-haired,\" he cried. \"Maximus said that they\nwere boys.\"\n\n'\"Yes, that was true some years ago,\" said Pertinax. \"What is our fate\nto be, you fine and well-fed child?\"\n\n'\"I am called Ambrosius, a secretary of the Emperor,\" he answered. \"Show\nme a certain letter which Maximus wrote from a tent at Aquileia, and\nperhaps I will believe.\"\n\n'I took it from my breast, and when he had read it he saluted us,\nsaying: \"Your fate is in your own hands. If you choose to serve\nTheodosius, he will give you a Legion. If it suits you to go to your\nhomes, we will give you a Triumph.\"\n\n'\"I would like better a bath, wine, food, razors, soaps, oils, and\nscents,\" said Pertinax, laughing.\n\n'\"Oh, I see you are a boy,\" said Ambrosius. \"And you?\" turning to me.\n\n'\"We bear no ill-will against Theodosius, but in War----\" I began.\n\n'\"In War it is as it is in Love,\" said Pertinax. \"Whether she be good or\nbad, one gives one's best once, to one only. That given, there remains\nno second worth giving or taking.\"\n\n'\"That is true,\" said Ambrosius. \"I was with Maximus before he died. He\nwarned Theodosius that you would never serve him, and frankly I say I am\nsorry for my Emperor.\"\n\n'\"He has Rome to console him,\" said Pertinax. \"I ask you of your\nkindness to let us go to our homes and get this smell out of our\nnostrils.\"\n\n'None the less they gave us a Triumph!'\n\n\n'It was well earned,' said Puck, throwing some leaves into the still\nwater of the marlpit. The black, oily circles spread dizzily as the\nchildren watched them.\n\n'I want to know, oh, ever so many things,' said Dan. 'What happened to\nold Allo? Did the Winged Hats ever come back? And what did Amal do?'\n\n'And what happened to the fat old General with the five cooks?' said\nUna. 'And what did your Mother say when you came home? ...'\n\n'She'd say you're settin' too long over this old pit, so late as 'tis\nalready,' said old Hobden's voice behind them. 'Hst!' he whispered.\n\nHe stood still, for not twenty paces away a magnificent dog-fox sat on\nhis haunches and looked at the children as though he were an old friend\nof theirs.\n\n'Oh, Mus' Reynolds, Mus' Reynolds!' said Hobden, under his breath. 'If I\nknowed all was inside your head, I'd know something wuth knowin'. Mus'\nDan an' Miss Una, come along o' me while I lock up my liddle hen-house.'\n\n\n\nA PICT SONG\n\n\nRome never looks where she treads,\n  Always her heavy hooves fall\nOn our stomachs, our hearts or our heads;\n  And Rome never heeds when we bawl.\nHer sentries pass on--that is all,\n  And we gather behind them in hordes,\nAnd plot to reconquer the Wall,\n  With only our tongues for our swords.\n\nWe are the Little Folk--we!\n  Too little to love or to hate.\nLeave us alone and you'll see\n  How we can drag down the Great!\nWe are the worm in the wood!\n  We are the rot at the root!\nWe are the germ in the blood!\n  We are the thorn in the foot!\n\nMistletoe killing an oak--\n  Rats gnawing cables in two--\nMoths making holes in a cloak--\n  How they must love what they do!\nYes--and we Little Folk too,\n  We are as busy as they--\nWorking our works out of view--\nWatch, and you'll see it some day!\n\nNo indeed! We are not strong,\n  But we know Peoples that are.\nYes, and we'll guide them along,\n  To smash and destroy you in War!\nWe shall be slaves just the same?\n  Yes, we have always been slaves,\nBut you--you will die of the shame,\n  And then we shall dance on your graves!\n\n  We are the Little Folk, we, etc.\n\n\n\n\nHAL O' THE DRAFT\n\n\nProphets have honour all over the Earth,\n  Except in the village where they were born,\nWhere such as knew them boys from birth\n  Nature-ally hold 'em in scorn.\n\nWhen Prophets are naughty and young and vain,\n  They make a won'erful grievance of it;\n(You can see by their writings how they complain),\n  But Oh, 'tis won'erful good for the Prophet!\n\nThere's nothing Nineveh Town can give\n  (Nor being swallowed by whales between),\nMakes up for the place where a man's folk live,\n  That don't care nothing what he has been.\nHe might ha' been that, or he might ha' been this,\nBut they love and they hate him for what he is.\n\n\n\nA rainy afternoon drove Dan and Una over to play pirates in the Little\nMill. If you don't mind rats on the rafters and oats in your shoes, the\nmill-attic, with its trap-doors and inscriptions on beams about floods\nand sweethearts, is a splendid place. It is lighted by a foot-square\nwindow, called Duck Window, that looks across to Little Lindens Farm,\nand the spot where Jack Cade was killed.\n\nWhen they had climbed the attic ladder (they called it 'the mainmast\ntree', out of the ballad of Sir Andrew Barton, and Dan 'swarved it with\nmight and main', as the ballad says) they saw a man sitting on Duck\nWindow-sill. He was dressed in a plum-coloured doublet and tight\nplum-coloured hose, and he drew busily in a red-edged book.\n\n'Sit ye! Sit ye!' Puck cried from a rafter overhead. 'See what it is to\nbe beautiful! Sir Harry Dawe--pardon, Hal--says I am the very image of a\nhead for a gargoyle.'\n\nThe man laughed and raised his dark velvet cap to the children, and his\ngrizzled hair bristled out in a stormy fringe. He was old--forty at\nleast--but his eyes were young, with funny little wrinkles all round\nthem. A satchel of embroidered leather hung from his broad belt, which\nlooked interesting.\n\n'May we see?' said Una, coming forward.\n\n'Surely--sure-ly!' he said, moving up on the window-seat, and returned\nto his work with a silver-pointed pencil. Puck sat as though the grin\nwere fixed for ever on his broad face, while they watched the quick,\ncertain fingers that copied it. Presently the man took a reed pen from\nhis satchel, and trimmed it with a little ivory knife, carved in the\nsemblance of a fish.\n\n'Oh, what a beauty!' cried Dan.\n\n''Ware fingers! That blade is perilous sharp. I made it myself of the\nbest Low Country cross-bow steel. And so, too, this fish. When his\nback-fin travels to his tail--so--he swallows up the blade, even as the\nwhale swallowed Gaffer Jonah ... Yes, and that's my ink-horn. I made the\nfour silver saints round it. Press Barnabas's head. It opens, and\nthen----' He dipped the trimmed pen, and with careful boldness began to\nput in the essential lines of Puck's rugged face, that had been but\nfaintly revealed by the silver-point.\n\nThe children gasped, for it fairly leaped from the page.\n\nAs he worked, and the rain fell on the tiles, he talked--now clearly,\nnow muttering, now breaking off to frown or smile at his work. He told\nthem he was born at Little Lindens Farm, and his father used to beat him\nfor drawing things instead of doing things, till an old priest called\nFather Roger, who drew illuminated letters in rich people's books,\ncoaxed the parents to let him take the boy as a sort of painter's\napprentice. Then he went with Father Roger to Oxford, where he cleaned\nplates and carried cloaks and shoes for the scholars of a College called\nMerton.\n\n'Didn't you hate that?' said Dan after a great many other questions.\n\n'I never thought on't. Half Oxford was building new colleges or\nbeautifying the old, and she had called to her aid the master-craftsmen\nof all Christendie--kings in their trade and honoured of Kings. I knew\nthem. I worked for them: that was enough. No wonder----' He stopped and\nlaughed.\n\n'You became a great man, Hal,' said Puck.\n\n'They said so, Robin. Even Bramante said so.'\n\n'Why? What did you do?' Dan asked.\n\nThe artist looked at him queerly. 'Things in stone and such, up and down\nEngland. You would not have heard of 'em. To come nearer home, I\nrebuilded this little St Barnabas' church of ours. It cost me more\ntrouble and sorrow than aught I've touched in my life. But 'twas a sound\nlesson.'\n\n'Um,' said Dan. 'We've had lessons this morning.'\n\n'I'll not afflict ye, lad,' said Hal, while Puck roared. 'Only 'tis\nstrange to think how that little church was rebuilt, re-roofed, and made\nglorious, thanks to some few godly Sussex iron-masters, a Bristow sailor\nlad, a proud ass called Hal o' the Draft because, d'you see, he was\nalways drawing and drafting; and'--he dragged the words slowly--'_and_ a\nScotch pirate.'\n\n'Pirate?' said Dan. He wriggled like a hooked fish.\n\n'Even that Andrew Barton you were singing of on the stair just now.' He\ndipped again in the ink-well, and held his breath over a sweeping line,\nas though he had forgotten everything else.\n\n'Pirates don't build churches, do they?' said Dan. 'Or _do_ they?'\n\n'They help mightily,' Hal laughed. 'But you were at your lessons this\nmorn, Jack Scholar.'\n\n'Oh, pirates aren't lessons. It was only Bruce and his silly old\nspider,' said Una. 'Why did Sir Andrew Barton help you?'\n\n'I question if he ever knew it,' said Hal, twinkling. 'Robin, how a'\nmischief's name am I to tell these innocents what comes of sinful\npride?'\n\n'Oh, we know all about _that_,' said Una pertly. 'If you get too\nbeany--that's cheeky--you get sat upon, of course.'\n\nHal considered a moment, pen in air, and Puck said some long words.\n\n'Aha! that was my case too,' he cried. 'Beany--you say--but certainly I\ndid not conduct myself well. I was proud of--of such things as\nporches--a Galilee porch at Lincoln for choice--proud of one\nTorrigiano's arm on my shoulder, proud of my knighthood when I made the\ngilt scroll-work for the _Sovereign_--our King's ship. But Father Roger\nsitting in Merton Library, he did not forget me. At the top of my pride,\nwhen I and no other should have builded the porch at Lincoln, he laid\nit on me with a terrible forefinger to go back to my Sussex clays and\nrebuild, at my own charges, my own church, where us Dawes have been\nburied for six generations. \"Out! Son of my Art!\" said he. \"Fight the\nDevil at home ere you call yourself a man and a craftsman.\" And I\nquaked, and I went ... How's yon, Robin?' He flourished the finished\nsketch before Puck.\n\n'Me! Me past peradventure,' said Puck, smirking like a man at a mirror.\n'Ah, see! The rain has took off! I hate housen in daylight.'\n\n'Whoop! Holiday!' cried Hal, leaping up. 'Who's for my Little Lindens?\nWe can talk there.'\n\nThey tumbled downstairs, and turned past the dripping willows by the\nsunny mill-dam.\n\n'Body o' me,' said Hal, staring at the hop-garden, where the hops were\njust ready to blossom. 'What are these? Vines? No, not vines, and they\ntwine the wrong way to beans.' He began to draw in his ready book.\n\n'Hops. New since your day,' said Puck. 'They're an herb of Mars, and\ntheir flowers dried flavour ale. We say--\n\n'Turkeys, Heresy, Hops, and Beer\nCame into England all in one year.'\n\n'Heresy I know. I've seen Hops--God be praised for their beauty! What is\nyour Turkis?'\n\nThe children laughed. They knew the Lindens turkeys, and as soon as they\nreached Lindens orchard on the hill the full flock charged at them.\n\nOut came Hal's book at once. 'Hoity-toity!' he cried. 'Here's Pride in\npurple feathers! Here's wrathy contempt and the Pomps of the Flesh! How\nd'you call _them_?'\n\n'Turkeys! Turkeys!' the children shouted, as the old gobbler raved and\nflamed against Hal's plum-coloured hose.\n\n''Save Your Magnificence!' he said. 'I've drafted two good new things\ntoday.' And he doffed his cap to the bubbling bird.\n\nThen they walked through the grass to the knoll where Little Lindens\nstands. The old farmhouse, weather-tiled to the ground, took almost the\ncolour of a blood-ruby in the afternoon light. The pigeons pecked at the\nmortar in the chimney-stacks; the bees that had lived under the tiles\nsince it was built filled the hot August air with their booming; and the\nsmell of the box-tree by the dairy-window mixed with the smell of earth\nafter rain, bread after baking, and a tickle of wood-smoke.\n\nThe farmer's wife came to the door, baby on arm, shaded her brows\nagainst the sun, stooped to pluck a sprig of rosemary, and turned down\nthe orchard. The old spaniel in his barrel barked once or twice to show\nhe was in charge of the empty house. Puck clicked back the garden-gate.\n\n'D'you marvel that I love it?' said Hal, in a whisper. 'What can town\nfolk know of the nature of housen--or land?'\n\nThey perched themselves arow on the old hacked oak bench in Lindens\ngarden, looking across the valley of the brook at the fern-covered\ndimples and hollows of the Forge behind Hobden's cottage. The old man\nwas cutting a faggot in his garden by the hives. It was quite a second\nafter his chopper fell that the chump of the blow reached their lazy\nears.\n\n'Eh--yeh!' said Hal. 'I mind when where that old gaffer stands was\nNether Forge--Master John Collins's foundry. Many a night has his big\ntrip-hammer shook me in my bed here. _Boom-bitty! Boom-bitty!_ If the\nwind was east, I could hear Master Tom Collins's forge at Stockens\nanswering his brother, _Boom-oop! Boom-oop!_ and midway between, Sir\nJohn Pelham's sledge-hammers at Brightling would strike in like a pack\no' scholars, and \"_Hic-haec-hoc_\" they'd say, \"_Hic-haec-hoc_,\" till I\nfell asleep. Yes. The valley was as full o' forges and fineries as a May\nshaw o' cuckoos. All gone to grass now!'\n\n'What did they make?' said Dan.\n\n'Guns for the King's ships--and for others. Serpentines and cannon\nmostly. When the guns were cast, down would come the King's Officers,\nand take our plough-oxen to haul them to the coast. Look! Here's one of\nthe first and finest craftsmen of the Sea!'\n\nHe fluttered back a page of his book, and showed them a young man's\nhead. Underneath was written: 'Sebastianus.'\n\n'He came down with a King's Order on Master John Collins for twenty\nserpentines (wicked little cannon they be!) to furnish a venture of\nships. I drafted him thus sitting by our fire telling Mother of the new\nlands he'd find the far side the world. And he found them, too! There's\na nose to cleave through unknown seas! Cabot was his name--a Bristol\nlad--half a foreigner. I set a heap by him. He helped me to my\nchurch-building.'\n\n'I thought that was Sir Andrew Barton,' said Dan.\n\n'Ay, but foundations before roofs,' Hal answered. 'Sebastian first put\nme in the way of it. I had come down here, not to serve God as a\ncraftsman should, but to show my people how great a craftsman I was.\nThey cared not, and it served me right, one split straw for my craft or\nmy greatness. What a murrain call had I, they said, to mell with old St\nBarnabas'? Ruinous the church had been since the Black Death, and\nruinous she would remain; and I could hang myself in my new\nscaffold-ropes! Gentle and simple, high and low--the Hayes, the Fowles,\nthe Fenners, the Collinses--they were all in a tale against me. Only Sir\nJohn Pelham up yonder at Brightling bade me heart-up and go on. Yet how\ncould I? Did I ask Master Collins for his timber-tug to haul beams? The\noxen had gone to Lewes after lime. Did he promise me a set of iron\ncramps or ties for the roof? They never came to hand, or else they were\nspaulty or cracked. So with everything. Nothing said, but naught done\nexcept I stood by them, and then done amiss. I thought the countryside\nwas fair bewitched.'\n\n'It was, sure-ly,' said Puck, knees under chin. 'Did you never suspect\nary one?'\n\n'Not till Sebastian came for his guns, and John Collins played him the\nsame dog's tricks as he'd played me with my ironwork. Week in, week out,\ntwo of three serpentines would be flawed in the casting, and only fit,\nthey said, to be re-melted. Then John Collins would shake his head, and\nvow he could pass no cannon for the King's service that were not\nperfect. Saints! How Sebastian stormed! _I_ know, for we sat on this\nbench sharing our sorrows inter-common.\n\n'When Sebastian had fumed away six weeks at Lindens and gotten just six\nserpentines, Dirk Brenzett, Master of the _Cygnet_ hoy, sends me word\nthat the block of stone he was fetching me from France for our new font\nhe'd hove overboard to lighten his ship, chased by Andrew Barton up to\nRye Port.'\n\n'Ah! The pirate!' said Dan.\n\n'Yes. And while I am tearing my hair over this, Ticehurst Will, my best\nmason, comes to me shaking, and vowing that the Devil, horned, tailed,\nand chained, has run out on him from the church-tower, and the men would\nwork there no more. So I took 'em off the foundations, which we were\nstrengthening, and went into the Bell Tavern for a cup of ale. Says\nMaster John Collins: \"Have it your own way, lad; but if I was you, I'd\ntake the sinnification o' the sign, and leave old Barnabas' Church\nalone!\" And they all wagged their sinful heads, and agreed. Less afraid\nof the Devil than of me--as I saw later.\n\n'When I brought my sweet news to Lindens, Sebastian was limewashing the\nkitchen-beams for Mother. He loved her like a son.\n\n'\"Cheer up, lad,\" he says. \"God's where He was. Only you and I chance to\nbe pure pute asses. We've been tricked, Hal, and more shame to me, a\nsailor, that I did not guess it before! You must leave your belfry\nalone, forsooth, because the Devil is adrift there; and I cannot get my\nserpentines because John Collins cannot cast them aright. Meantime\nAndrew Barton hawks off the Port of Rye. And why? To take those very\nserpentines which poor Cabot must whistle for; the said serpentines,\nI'll wager my share of new continents, being now hid away in St\nBarnabas' church-tower. Clear as the Irish coast at noonday!\"\n\n\"They'd sure never dare to do it,\" I said; \"and, for another thing,\nselling cannon to the King's enemies is black treason--hanging and\nfine.\"\n\n'\"It is sure, large profit. Men'll dare any gallows for that. I have\nbeen a trader myself,\" says he. \"We must be upsides with 'em for the\nhonour of Bristol.\"\n\n'Then he hatched a plot, sitting on the limewash bucket. We gave out to\nride o' Tuesday to London and made a show of taking farewells of our\nfriends--especially of Master John Collins. But at Wadhurst Woods we\nturned; rode home to the watermeadows; hid our horses in a willow-tot at\nthe foot of the glebe, and, come night, stole a-tiptoe up hill to\nBarnabas' church again. A thick mist, and a moon striking through.\n\n'I had no sooner locked the tower-door behind us than over goes\nSebastian full length in the dark.\n\n'\"Pest!\" he says. \"Step high and feel low, Hal. I've stumbled over guns\nbefore.\"\n\n'I groped, and one by one--the tower was pitchy dark--I counted the\nlither barrels of twenty serpentines laid out on pease straw. No conceal\nat all!\n\n'\"There's two demi-cannon my end,\" says Sebastian, slapping metal.\n\"They'll be for Andrew Barton's lower deck. Honest--honest John Collins!\nSo this is his warehouse, his arsenal, his armoury! Now see you why your\npokings and pryings have raised the Devil in Sussex? You've hindered\nJohn's lawful trade for months,\" and he laughed where he lay.\n\n'A clay-cold tower is no fireside at midnight, so we climbed the belfry\nstairs, and there Sebastian trips over a cow-hide with its horns and\ntail.\n\n'\"Aha! Your Devil has left his doublet! Does it become me, Hal?\" He\ndraws it on and capers in the shafts of window-moonlight--won'erful\ndevilish-like. Then he sits on the stairs, rapping with his tail on a\nboard, and his back-aspect was dreader than his front, and a howlet lit\nin, and screeched at the horns of him.\n\n'\"If you'd keep out the Devil, shut the door,\" he whispered. \"And that's\nanother false proverb, Hal, for I can hear your tower-door opening.\"\n\n'\"I locked it. Who a-plague has another key, then?\" I said.\n\n'\"All the congregation, to judge by their feet,\" he says, and peers into\nthe blackness. \"Still! Still, Hal! Hear 'em grunt! That's more o' my\nserpentines, I'll be bound. One--two--three--four they bear in! Faith,\nAndrew equips himself like an Admiral! Twenty-four serpentines in all!\"\n\n'As if it had been an echo, we heard John Collins's voice come up all\nhollow: \"Twenty-four serpentines and two demi-cannon. That's the full\ntally for Sir Andrew Barton.\"\n\n'\"Courtesy costs naught,\" whispers Sebastian. \"Shall I drop my dagger on\nhis head?\"\n\n'\"They go over to Rye o' Thursday in the wool-wains, hid under the\nwool-packs. Dirk Brenzett meets them at Udimore, as before,\" says John.\n\n'\"Lord! What a worn, handsmooth trade it is!\" says Sebastian. \"I lay we\nare the sole two babes in the village that have not our lawful share in\nthe venture.\"\n\n'There was a full score folk below, talking like all Robertsbridge\nMarket. We counted them by voice.\n\n'Master John Collins pipes: \"The guns for the French carrack must lie\nhere next month. Will, when does your young fool\" (me, so please you!)\n\"come back from Lunnon?\"\n\n'\"No odds,\" I heard Ticehurst Will answer. \"Lay 'em just where you've a\nmind, Mus' Collins. We're all too afraid o' the Devil to mell with the\ntower now.\" And the long knave laughed.\n\n'\"Ah! 'tis easy enow for you to raise the Devil, Will,\" says\nanother--Ralph Hobden of the Forge.\n\n'\"Aaa-men!\" roars Sebastian, and ere I could hold him, he leaps down the\nstairs--won'erful devilish-like howling no bounds. He had scarce time to\nlay out for the nearest than they ran. Saints, how they ran! We heard\nthem pound on the door of the Bell Tavern, and then we ran too.\n\n'\"What's next?\" says Sebastian, looping up his cow-tail as he leaped the\nbriars. \"I've broke honest John's face.\"\n\n'\"Ride to Sir John Pelham's,\" I said. \"He is the only one that ever\nstood by me.\"\n\n'We rode to Brightling, and past Sir John's lodges, where the keepers\nwould have shot at us for deer-stealers, and we had Sir John down into\nhis Justice's chair, and when we had told him our tale and showed him\nthe cow-hide which Sebastian wore still girt about him, he laughed till\nthe tears ran.\n\n'\"Wel-a-well!\" he says. \"I'll see justice done before daylight. What's\nyour complaint? Master Collins is my old friend.\"\n\n'\"He's none of mine,\" I cried. \"When I think how he and his likes have\nbaulked and dozened and cozened me at every turn over the church\"----and\nI choked at the thought.\n\n'\"Ah, but ye see now they needed it for another use,\" says he smoothly.\n\n'\"So they did my serpentines,\" Sebastian cries. \"I should be half across\nthe Western Ocean by now if my guns had been ready. But they're sold to\na Scotch pirate by your old friend--\"\n\n'\"Where's your proof?\" says Sir John, stroking his beard.\n\n'\"I broke my shins over them not an hour since, and I heard John give\norder where they were to be taken,\" says Sebastian.\n\n'\"Words! Words only,\" says Sir John. \"Master Collins is somewhat of a\nliar at best.\"\n\n'He carried it so gravely that, for the moment, I thought he was dipped\nin this secret traffick too, and that there was not an honest ironmaster\nin Sussex.\n\n'\"Name o' Reason!\" says Sebastian, and raps with his cow-tail on the\ntable, \"whose guns are they, then?\"\n\n'\"Yours, manifestly,\" says Sir John. \"You come with the King's Order for\n'em, and Master Collins casts them in his foundry. If he chooses to\nbring them up from Nether Forge and lay 'em out in the church-tower,\nwhy, they are e'en so much the nearer to the main road and you are saved\na day's hauling. What a coil to make of a mere act of neighbourly\nkindness, lad!\"\n\n'\"I fear I have requited him very scurvily,\" says Sebastian, looking at\nhis knuckles. \"But what of the demi-cannon? I could do with 'em well,\nbut they are not in the King's Order.\"\n\n'\"Kindness--loving-kindness,\" says Sir John. \"Questionless, in his zeal\nfor the King and his love for you, John adds those two cannon as a gift.\n'Tis plain as this coming daylight, ye stockfish!\"\n\n'\"So it is,\" says Sebastian. \"Oh, Sir John, Sir John, why did you never\nuse the sea? You are lost ashore.\" And he looked on him with great love.\n\n'\"I do my best in my station.\" Sir John strokes his beard again and\nrolls forth his deep drumming Justice's voice thus: \"But--suffer\nme!--you two lads, on some midnight frolic into which I probe not,\nroystering around the taverns, surprise Master Collins at his\"--he\nthinks a moment--\"at his good deeds done by stealth. Ye surprise him, I\nsay, cruelly.\"\n\n'\"Truth, Sir John. If you had seen him run!\" says Sebastian.\n\n'\"On this you ride breakneck to me with a tale of pirates, and\nwool-wains, and cow-hides, which, though it hath moved my mirth as a\nman, offendeth my reason as a magistrate. So I will e'en accompany you\nback to the tower with, perhaps, some few of my own people, and\nthree-four wagons, and I'll be your warrant that Master John Collins\nwill freely give you your guns and your demi-cannon, Master Sebastian.\"\nHe breaks into his proper voice--\"I warned the old tod and his\nneighbours long ago that they'd come to trouble with their side-sellings\nand bye-dealings; but we cannot have half Sussex hanged for a little\ngun-running. Are ye content, lads?\"\n\n'\"I'd commit any treason for two demi-cannon,\" said Sebastian, and rubs\nhis hands.\n\n'\"Ye have just compounded with rank treason-felony for the same bribe,\"\nsays Sir John. \"Wherefore to horse, and get the guns.\"'\n\n'But Master Collins meant the guns for Sir Andrew Barton all along,\ndidn't he?' said Dan.\n\n'Questionless, that he did,' said Hal. 'But he lost them. We poured into\nthe village on the red edge of dawn, Sir John horsed, in half-armour,\nhis pennon flying; behind him thirty stout Brightling knaves, five\nabreast; behind them four wool-wains, and behind them four trumpets to\ntriumph over the jest, blowing: _Our King went forth to Normandie_. When\nwe halted and rolled the ringing guns out of the tower, 'twas for all\nthe world like Friar Roger's picture of the French siege in the Queen's\nMissal-book.'\n\n'And what did we--I mean, what did our village do?' said Dan.\n\n'Oh! Bore it nobly--nobly,' cried Hal. 'Though they had tricked me, I\nwas proud of them. They came out of their housen, looked at that little\narmy as though it had been a post, and went their shut-mouthed way.\nNever a sign! Never a word! They'd ha' perished sooner than let\nBrightling overcrow us. Even that villain, Ticehurst Will, coming out of\nthe Bell for his morning ale, he all but runs under Sir John's horse.\n\n'\"'Ware, Sirrah Devil!\" cries Sir John, reining back.\n\n'\"Oh!\" says Will. \"Market-day, is it? And all the bullocks from\nBrightling here?\"\n\n'I spared him his belting for that--the brazen knave!\n\n'But John Collins was our masterpiece! He happened along-street (his jaw\ntied up where Sebastian had clouted him) when we were trundling the\nfirst demi-cannon through the lych-gate.\n\n'\"I reckon you'll find her middlin' heavy,\" he says. \"If you've a mind\nto pay, I'll loan ye my timber-tug. She won't lie easy on ary\nwool-wain.\"\n\n'That was the one time I ever saw Sebastian taken flat aback. He opened\nand shut his mouth, fishy-like.\n\n'\"No offence,\" says Master John. \"You've got her reasonable good cheap.\nI thought ye might not grudge me a groat if I helped move her.\" Ah, he\nwas a masterpiece! They say that morning's work cost our John two\nhundred pounds, and he never winked an eyelid, not even when he saw the\nguns all carted off to Lewes.'\n\n'Neither then nor later?' said Puck.\n\n'Once. 'Twas after he gave St Barnabas' the new chime of bells. (Oh,\nthere was nothing the Collinses, or the Hayes, or the Fowles, or the\nFenners would not do for the church then! \"Ask and have\" was their\nsong.) We had rung 'em in, and he was in the tower with Black Nick\nFowle, that gave us our rood-screen. The old man pinches the bell-rope\none hand and scratches his neck with t'other. \"Sooner she was pulling\nyon clapper than my neck, he says. That was all! That was Sussex--seely\nSussex for everlastin'!'\n\n'And what happened after?' said Una.\n\n'I went back into England,' said Hal, slowly. 'I'd had my lesson against\npride. But they tell me I left St Barnabas' a jewel--justabout a jewel!\nWel-a-well! 'Twas done for and among my own people, and--Father Roger\nwas right--I never knew such trouble or such triumph since. That's the\nnature o' things. A dear--dear land.' He dropped his chin on his chest.\n\n'There's your Father at the Forge. What's he talking to old Hobden\nabout?' said Puck, opening his hand with three leaves in it.\n\nDan looked towards the cottage.\n\n'Oh, I know. It's that old oak lying across the brook. Pater always\nwants it grubbed.'\n\nIn the still valley they could hear old Hobden's deep tones.\n\n'Have it _as_ you've a mind to,' he was saying. 'But the vivers of her\nroots they hold the bank together. If you grub her out, the bank she'll\nall come tearin' down, an' next floods the brook'll swarve up. But have\nit as you've a mind. The Mistuss she sets a heap by the ferns on her\ntrunk.\n\n'Oh! I'll think it over,' said the Pater.\n\nUna laughed a little bubbling chuckle.\n\n'What Devil's in _that_ belfry?' said Hal, with a lazy laugh. 'That\nshould be a Hobden by his voice.'\n\n'Why, the oak is the regular bridge for all the rabbits between the\nThree Acre and our meadow. The best place for wires on the farm, Hobden\nsays. He's got two there now,' Una answered. '_He_ won't ever let it be\ngrubbed!'\n\n'Ah, Sussex! Sillly Sussex for everlastin',' murmured Hal; and the next\nmoment their Father's voice calling across to Little Lindens broke the\nspell as little St Barnabas' clock struck five.\n\n\n\nA SMUGGLERS' SONG\n\n\nIf You wake at midnight, and hear a horse's feet,\nDon't go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street,\nThem that asks no questions isn't told a lie.\nWatch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!\n     Five-and-twenty ponies,\n     Trotting through the dark--\n     Brandy for the Parson,\n     'Baccy for the Clerk;\n     Laces for a lady; letters for a spy,\nAnd watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!\n\nRunning round the woodlump if you chance to find\nLittle barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine;\nDon't you shout to come and look, nor take 'em for your play;\nPut the brishwood back again,--and they'll be gone next day!\n\nIf you see the stable-door setting open wide;\nIf you see a tired horse lying down inside;\nIf your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;\nIf the lining's wet and warm--don't you ask no more!\n\nIf you meet King George's men, dressed in blue and red,\nYou be careful what you say, and mindful what is said.\nIf they call you 'pretty maid,' and chuck you 'neath the chin,\nDon't you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one's been!\n\nKnocks and footsteps round the house--whistles after dark--\nYou've no call for running out till the house-dogs bark.\nTrusty's here, and Pincher's here, and see how dumb they lie--\nThey don't fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by!\n\nIf you do as you've been told, 'likely there's a chance,\nYou'll be give a dainty doll, all the way from France,\nWith a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood--\nA present from the Gentlemen, along o' being good!\n     Five-and-twenty ponies,\n     Trotting through the dark--\n     Brandy for the Parson,\n     'Baccy for the Clerk.\nThem that asks no questions isn't told a lie--\nWatch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!\n\n\n\n\n'DYMCHURCH FLIT'\n\n\n\nTHE BEE BOY'S SONG\n\n\nBees! Bees! Hark to your bees!\n'Hide from your neighbours as much as you please,\nBut all that has happened, to _us_ you must tell,\nOr else we will give you no honey to sell!'\n\n    A Maiden in her glory,\n      Upon her wedding-day,\n    Must tell her Bees the story,\n      Or else they'll fly away.\n            Fly away--die away--\n              Dwindle down and leave you!\n            But if you don't deceive your Bees,\n              Your Bees will not deceive you.\n\n    Marriage, birth or buryin',\n      News across the seas,\n    All you're sad or merry in,\n      You must tell the Bees.\n            Tell 'em coming in an' out,\n              Where the Fanners fan,\n            'Cause the Bees are justabout\n              As curious as a man!\n\n    Don't you wait where trees are,\n      When the lightnings play;\n    Nor don't you hate where Bees are,\n      Or else they'll pine away.\n            Pine away--dwine away--\n              Anything to leave you!\n            But if you never grieve your Bees,\n              Your Bees'll never grieve you!\n\n\n\nJust at dusk, a soft September rain began to fall on the hop-pickers.\nThe mothers wheeled the bouncing perambulators out of the gardens; bins\nwere put away, and tally-books made up. The young couples strolled home,\ntwo to each umbrella, and the single men walked behind them laughing.\nDan and Una, who had been picking after their lessons, marched off to\nroast potatoes at the oast-house, where old Hobden, with Blue-eyed Bess,\nhis lurcher dog, lived all the month through, drying the hops.\n\nThey settled themselves, as usual, on the sack-strewn cot in front of\nthe fires, and, when Hobden drew up the shutter, stared, as usual, at\nthe flameless bed of coals spouting its heat up the dark well of the\nold-fashioned roundel. Slowly he cracked off a few fresh pieces of coal,\npacked them, with fingers that never flinched, exactly where they would\ndo most good; slowly he reached behind him till Dan tilted the potatoes\ninto his iron scoop of a hand; carefully he arranged them round the\nfire, and then stood for a moment, black against the glare. As he closed\nthe shutter, the oast-house seemed dark before the day's end, and he lit\nthe candle in the lanthorn. The children liked all these things because\nthey knew them so well.\n\nThe Bee Boy, Hobden's son, who is not quite right in his head, though he\ncan do anything with bees, slipped in like a shadow. They only guessed\nit when Bess's stump-tail wagged against them.\n\nA big voice began singing outside in the drizzle:\n\n'Old Mother Laidinwool had nigh twelve months been dead,\nShe heard the hops were doin' well, and then popped up her head.'\n\n'There can't be two people made to holler like that!' cried old Hobden,\nwheeling round.\n\n'For,' says she, 'The boys I've picked with when I was young and fair,\nThey're bound to be at hoppin', and I'm----'\n\nA man showed at the doorway.\n\n'Well, well! They do say hoppin' 'll draw the very deadest, and now I\nbelieft 'em. You, Tom? Tom Shoesmith?' Hobden lowered his lanthorn.\n\n'You're a hem of a time makin' your mind to it, Ralph!' The stranger\nstrode in--three full inches taller than Hobden, a grey-whiskered,\nbrown-faced giant with clear blue eyes. They shook hands, and the\nchildren could hear the hard palms rasp together.\n\n'You ain't lost none o' your grip,' said Hobden. 'Was it thirty or forty\nyear back you broke my head at Peasmarsh Fair?'\n\n'Only thirty, an' no odds 'tween us regardin' heads, neither. You had it\nback at me with a hop-pole. How did we get home that night? Swimmin'?'\n\n'Same way the pheasant come into Gubbs's pocket--by a little luck an' a\ndeal o' conjurin'.' Old Hobden laughed in his deep chest.\n\n'I see you've not forgot your way about the woods. D'ye do any o' _this_\nstill?' The stranger pretended to look along a gun.\n\nHobden answered with a quick movement of the hand as though he were\npegging down a rabbit-wire.\n\n'No. _That's_ all that's left me now. Age she must as Age she can. An'\nwhat's your news since all these years?'\n\n'Oh, I've bin to Plymouth, I've bin to Dover--\nI've bin ramblin', boys, the wide world over,'\n\nthe man answered cheerily. 'I reckon I know as much of Old England as\nmost.' He turned towards the children and winked boldly.\n\n'I lay they told you a sight o' lies, then. I've been into England fur\nas Wiltsheer once. I was cheated proper over a pair of hedgin'-gloves,'\nsaid Hobden.\n\n'There's fancy-talkin' everywhere. _You've_ cleaved to your own parts\npretty middlin' close, Ralph.'\n\n'Can't shift an old tree 'thout it dyin',' Hobden chuckled. 'An' I be no\nmore anxious to die than you look to be to help me with my hops\ntonight.'\n\nThe great man leaned against the brickwork of the roundel, and swung his\narms abroad. 'Hire me!' was all he said, and they stumped upstairs\nlaughing.\n\nThe children heard their shovels rasp on the cloth where the yellow hops\nlie drying above the fires, and all the oast-house filled with the\nsweet, sleepy smell as they were turned.\n\n'Who is it?' Una whispered to the Bee Boy.\n\n'Dunno, no more'n you--if _you_ dunno,' said he, and smiled.\n\nThe voices on the drying-floor talked and chuckled together, and the\nheavy footsteps moved back and forth. Presently a hop-pocket dropped\nthrough the press-hole overhead, and stiffened and fattened as they\nshovelled it full. 'Clank!' went the press, and rammed the loose stuff\ninto tight cake.\n\n'Gently!' they heard Hobden cry. 'You'll bust her crop if you lay on so.\nYou be as careless as Gleason's bull, Tom. Come an' sit by the fires.\nShe'll do now.'\n\nThey came down, and as Hobden opened the shutter to see if the potatoes\nwere done Tom Shoesmith said to the children, 'Put a plenty salt on 'em.\nThat'll show you the sort o' man _I_ be.' Again he winked, and again the\nBee Boy laughed and Una stared at Dan.\n\n'_I_ know what sort o' man you be,' old Hobden grunted, groping for the\npotatoes round the fire.\n\n'Do ye?' Tom went on behind his back. 'Some of us can't abide\nHorseshoes, or Church Bells, or Running Water; an', talkin' o' runnin'\nwater'--he turned to Hobden, who was backing out of the roundel--'d'you\nmind the great floods at Robertsbridge, when the miller's man was\ndrowned in the street?'\n\n'Middlin' well.' Old Hobden let himself down on the coals by the\nfire-door. 'I was courtin' my woman on the Marsh that year. Carter to\nMus' Plum I was, gettin' ten shillin's week. Mine was a Marsh woman.'\n\n'Won'erful odd-gates place----Romney Marsh,' said Tom Shoesmith. 'I've\nheard say the world's divided like into Europe, Ashy, Afriky, Ameriky,\nAustraly, an' Romney Marsh.'\n\n'The Marsh folk think so,' said Hobden. 'I had a hem o' trouble to get\nmy woman to leave it.'\n\n'Where did she come out of? I've forgot, Ralph.'\n\n'Dymchurch under the Wall,' Hobden answered, a potato in his hand.\n\n'Then she'd be a Pett--or a Whitgift, would she?'\n\n'Whitgift.' Hobden broke open the potato and ate it with the curious\nneatness of men who make most of their meals in the blowy open. 'She\ngrowed to be quite reasonable-like after livin' in the Weald awhile, but\nour first twenty year or two she was odd-fashioned, no bounds. And she\nwas a won'erful hand with bees.' He cut away a little piece of potato\nand threw it out to the door.\n\n'Ah! I've heard say the Whitgifts could see further through a millstone\nthan most,' said Shoesmith. 'Did she, now?'\n\n'She was honest-innocent of any nigromancin',' said Hobden. 'Only she'd\nread signs and sinnifications out o' birds flyin', stars fallin', bees\nhivin', and such. An, she'd lie awake--listenin' for calls, she said.'\n\n'That don't prove naught,' said Tom. 'All Marsh folk has been smugglers\nsince time everlastin'. 'Twould be in her blood to listen out o'\nnights.'\n\n'Nature-ally,' old Hobden replied, smiling. 'I mind when there was\nsmugglin' a sight nearer us than what the Marsh be. But that wasn't my\nwoman's trouble. 'Twas a passel o' no-sense talk'--he dropped his\nvoice--'about Pharisees.'\n\n'Yes. I've heard Marsh men belieft in 'em.' Tom looked straight at the\nwide-eyed children beside Bess.\n\n'Pharisees,' cried Una. 'Fairies? Oh, I see!'\n\n'People o' the Hills,' said the Bee Boy, throwing half of his potato\ntowards the door.\n\n'There you be!' said Hobden, pointing at him. My boy--he has her eyes\nand her out-gate sense. That's what _she_ called 'em!'\n\n'And what did you think of it all?'\n\n'Um--um,' Hobden rumbled. 'A man that uses fields an' shaws after dark\nas much as I've done, he don't go out of his road excep' for keepers.'\n\n'But settin' that aside?' said Tom, coaxingly. 'I saw ye throw the Good\nPiece out-at-doors just now. Do ye believe or--_do_ ye?'\n\n'There was a great black eye to that tater,' said Hobden indignantly.\n\n'My liddle eye didn't see un, then. It looked as if you meant it\nfor--for Any One that might need it. But settin' that aside, d'ye\nbelieve or--_do_ ye?'\n\n'I ain't sayin' nothin', because I've heard naught, an' I've see naught.\nBut if you was to say there was more things after dark in the shaws than\nmen, or fur, or feather, or fin, I dunno as I'd go far about to call you\na liar. Now turnagain, Tom. What's your say?'\n\n'I'm like you. I say nothin'. But I'll tell you a tale, an' you can fit\nit _as_ how you please.'\n\n'Passel o' no-sense stuff,' growled Hobden, but he filled his pipe.\n\n'The Marsh men they call it Dymchurch Flit,' Tom went on slowly. 'Hap\nyou have heard it?'\n\n'My woman she've told it me scores o' times. Dunno as I didn't end by\nbelieftin' it--sometimes.'\n\nHobden crossed over as he spoke, and sucked with his pipe at the yellow\nlanthorn flame. Tom rested one great elbow on one great knee, where he\nsat among the coal.\n\n'Have you ever bin in the Marsh?' he said to Dan.\n\n'Only as far as Rye, once,' Dan answered.\n\n'Ah, that's but the edge. Back behind of her there's steeples settin'\nbeside churches, an' wise women settin' beside their doors, an' the sea\nsettin' above the land, an' ducks herdin' wild in the diks' (he meant\nditches). 'The Marsh is justabout riddled with diks an' sluices, an'\ntide-gates an' water-lets. You can hear 'em bubblin' an' grummelin' when\nthe tide works in 'em, an' then you hear the sea rangin' left and\nright-handed all up along the Wall. You've seen how flat she is--the\nMarsh? You'd think nothin' easier than to walk eend-on acrost her? Ah,\nbut the diks an' the water-lets, they twists the roads about as ravelly\nas witch-yarn on the spindles. So ye get all turned round in broad\ndaylight.'\n\n'That's because they've dreened the waters into the diks,' said Hobden.\n'When I courted my woman the rushes was green--Eh me! the rushes was\ngreen--an' the Bailiff o' the Marshes he rode up and down as free as the\nfog.'\n\n'Who was he?' said Dan.\n\n'Why, the Marsh fever an' ague. He've clapped me on the shoulder once or\ntwice till I shook proper. But now the dreenin' off of the waters have\ndone away with the fevers; so they make a joke, like, that the Bailiff\no' the Marshes broke his neck in a dik. A won'erful place for bees an'\nducks 'tis too.'\n\n'An' old,' Tom went on. 'Flesh an' Blood have been there since Time\nEverlastin' Beyond. Well, now, speakin' among themselves, the Marsh men\nsay that from Time Everlastin' Beyond, the Pharisees favoured the Marsh\nabove the rest of Old England. I lay the Marsh men ought to know.\nThey've been out after dark, father an' son, smugglin' some one thing or\nt'other, since ever wool grew to sheep's backs. They say there was\nalways a middlin' few Pharisees to be seen on the Marsh. Impident as\nrabbits, they was. They'd dance on the nakid roads in the nakid daytime;\nthey'd flash their liddle green lights along the diks, comin' an' goin',\nlike honest smugglers. Yes, an' times they'd lock the church doors\nagainst parson an' clerk of Sundays.'\n\n'That 'ud be smugglers layin' in the lace or the brandy till they could\nrun it out o' the Marsh. I've told my woman so,' said Hobden.\n\n'I'll lay she didn't belieft it, then--not if she was a Whitgift. A\nwon'erful choice place for Pharisees, the Marsh, by all accounts, till\nQueen Bess's father he come in with his Reformatories.'\n\n'Would that be a Act of Parliament like?' Hobden asked.\n\n'Sure-ly. Can't do nothing in Old England without Act, Warrant an'\nSummons. He got his Act allowed him, an', they say, Queen Bess's father\nhe used the parish churches something shameful. Justabout tore the\ngizzards out of I dunnamany. Some folk in England they held with 'en;\nbut some they saw it different, an' it eended in 'em takin' sides an'\nburnin' each other no bounds, accordin' which side was top, time bein'.\nThat tarrified the Pharisees: for Goodwill among Flesh an' Blood is meat\nan' drink to 'em, an' ill-will is poison.'\n\n'Same as bees,' said the Bee Boy. 'Bees won't stay by a house where\nthere's hating.'\n\n'True,' said Tom. 'This Reformatories tarrified the Pharisees same as\nthe reaper goin' round a last stand o' wheat tarrifies rabbits. They\npacked into the Marsh from all parts, and they says, \"Fair or foul, we\nmust flit out o' this, for Merry England's done with, an' we're reckoned\namong the Images.\"'\n\n'Did they _all_ see it that way?' said Hobden.\n\n'All but one that was called Robin--if you've heard of him. What are you\nlaughin' at?' Tom turned to Dan. 'The Pharisees's trouble didn't tech\nRobin, because he'd cleaved middlin' close to people, like. No more he\nnever meant to go out of Old England--not he; so he was sent messagin'\nfor help among Flesh an' Blood. But Flesh an' Blood must always think of\ntheir own concerns, an' Robin couldn't get _through_ at 'em, ye see.\nThey thought it was tide-echoes off the Marsh.'\n\n'What did you--what did the fai--Pharisees want?' Una asked.\n\n'A boat, to be sure. Their liddle wings could no more cross Channel than\nso many tired butterflies. A boat an' a crew they desired to sail 'em\nover to France, where yet awhile folks hadn't tore down the Images. They\ncouldn't abide cruel Canterbury Bells ringin' to Bulverhithe for more\npore men an' women to be burnded, nor the King's proud messenger ridin'\nthrough the land givin' orders to tear down the Images. They couldn't\nabide it no shape. Nor yet they couldn't get their boat an' crew to flit\nby without Leave an' Good-will from Flesh an' Blood; an' Flesh an' Blood\ncame an' went about its own business the while the Marsh was swarvin'\nup, an' swarvin' up with Pharisees from all England over, strivin' all\nmeans to get through at Flesh an' Blood to tell 'em their sore need ...\nI don't know as you've ever heard say Pharisees are like chickens?'\n\n'My woman used to say that too,' said Hobden, folding his brown arms.\n\n'They be. You run too many chickens together, an' the ground sickens,\nlike, an' you get a squat, an' your chickens die. Same way, you crowd\nPharisees all in one place--_they_ don't die, but Flesh an' Blood\nwalkin' among 'em is apt to sick up an' pine off. _They_ don't mean it,\nan' Flesh an' Blood don't know it, but that's the truth--as I've heard.\nThe Pharisees through bein' all stenched up an' frighted, an' trying' to\ncome _through_ with their supplications, they nature-ally changed the\nthin airs an' humours in Flesh an' Blood. It lay on the Marsh like\nthunder. Men saw their churches ablaze with the wildfire in the windows\nafter dark; they saw their cattle scatterin' an' no man scarin'; their\nsheep flockin' an' no man drivin'; their horses latherin' an' no man\nleadin'; they saw the liddle low green lights more than ever in the\ndik-sides; they heard the liddle feet patterin' more than ever round the\nhouses; an' night an' day, day an' night, 'twas all as though they were\nbein' creeped up on, an' hinted at by Some One or other that couldn't\nrightly shape their trouble. Oh, I lay they sweated! Man an' maid, woman\nan' child, their nature done 'em no service all the weeks while the\nMarsh was swarvin' up with Pharisees. But they was Flesh an' Blood, an'\nMarsh men before all. They reckoned the signs sinnified trouble for the\nMarsh. Or that the sea 'ud rear up against Dymchurch Wall an' they'd be\ndrownded like Old Winchelsea; or that the Plague was comin'. So they\nlooked for the meanin' in the sea or in the clouds--far an' high up.\nThey never thought to look near an' knee-high, where they could see\nnaught.\n\n'Now there was a poor widow at Dymchurch under the Wall, which, lacking\nman or property, she had the more time for feeling; and she come to feel\nthere was a Trouble outside her doorstep bigger an' heavier than aught\nshe'd ever carried over it. She had two sons--one born blind, an'\nt'other struck dumb through fallin' off the Wall when he was liddle.\nThey was men grown, but not wage-earnin', an' she worked for 'em,\nkeepin' bees and answerin' Questions.'\n\n'What sort of questions?' said Dan.\n\n'Like where lost things might be found, an' what to put about a crooked\nbaby's neck, an' how to join parted sweethearts. She felt the Trouble on\nthe Marsh same as eels feel thunder. She was a wise woman.'\n\n'My woman was won'erful weather-tender, too,' said Hobden. 'I've seen\nher brish sparks like off an anvil out of her hair in thunderstorms. But\nshe never laid out to answer Questions.'\n\n'This woman was a Seeker, like, an' Seekers they sometimes find. One\nnight, while she lay abed, hot an' achin', there come a Dream an' tapped\nat her window, an' \"Widow Whitgift,\" it said, \"Widow Whitgift!\"\n\n'First, by the wings an' the whistlin', she thought it was peewits, but\nlast she arose an' dressed herself, an' opened her door to the Marsh,\nan' she felt the Trouble an' the Groanin' all about her, strong as fever\nan' ague, an' she calls: \"What is it? Oh, what is it?\"\n\n'Then 'twas all like the frogs in the diks peepin'; then 'twas all like\nthe reeds in the diks clip-clappin'; an' then the great Tide-wave\nrummelled along the Wall, an' she couldn't hear proper.\n\n'Three times she called, an' three times the Tide-wave did her down. But\nshe catched the quiet between, an' she cries out, \"What is the Trouble\non the Marsh that's been lying down with my heart an' arising with my\nbody this month gone?\" She felt a liddle hand lay hold on her gown-hem,\nan' she stooped to the pull o' that liddle hand.'\n\nTom Shoesmith spread his huge fist before the fire and smiled at it.\n\n'\"Will the sea drown the Marsh?\" she says. She was a Marsh woman first\nan' foremost.\n\n'\"No,\" says the liddle voice. \"Sleep sound for all o' that.\"\n\n'\"Is the Plague comin' to the Marsh?\" she says. Them was all the ills\nshe knowed.\n\n'\"No. Sleep sound for all o' that,\" says Robin.\n\n'She turned about, half mindful to go in, but the liddle voices grieved\nthat shrill an' sorrowful she turns back, an' she cries: \"If it is not a\nTrouble of Flesh an' Blood, what can I do?\"\n\n'The Pharisees cried out upon her from all round to fetch them a boat to\nsail to France, an' come back no more.\n\n'\"There's a boat on the Wall,\" she says, \"but I can't push it down to\nthe sea, nor sail it when 'tis there.\"\n\n'\"Lend us your sons,\" says all the Pharisees. \"Give 'em Leave an'\nGood-will to sail it for us, Mother--O Mother!\"\n\n'\"One's dumb, an' t'other's blind,\" she says. \"But all the dearer me for\nthat; and you'll lose them in the big sea.\" The voices justabout\npierced through her; an' there was children's voices too. She stood out\nall she could, but she couldn't rightly stand against _that_. So she\nsays: \"If you can draw my sons for your job, I'll not hinder 'em. You\ncan't ask no more of a Mother.\"\n\n'She saw them liddle green lights dance an' cross till she was dizzy;\nshe heard them liddle feet patterin' by the thousand; she heard cruel\nCanterbury Bells ringing to Bulverhithe, an' she heard the great\nTide-wave ranging along the Wall. That was while the Pharisees was\nworkin' a Dream to wake her two sons asleep: an' while she bit on her\nfingers she saw them two she'd bore come out an' pass her with never a\nword. She followed 'em, cryin' pitiful, to the old boat on the Wall, an'\nthat they took an' runned down to the sea.\n\n'When they'd stepped mast an' sail the blind son speaks: \"Mother, we're\nwaitin' your Leave an' Good-will to take Them over.\"'\n\nTom Shoesmith threw back his head and half shut his eyes.\n\n'Eh, me!' he said. 'She was a fine, valiant woman, the Widow Whitgift.\nShe stood twistin' the eends of her long hair over her fingers, an' she\nshook like a poplar, makin' up her mind. The Pharisees all about they\nhushed their children from cryin' an' they waited dumb-still. She was\nall their dependence. 'Thout her Leave an' Good-will they could not\npass; for she was the Mother. So she shook like a aps-tree makin' up her\nmind. 'Last she drives the word past her teeth, an' \"Go!\" she says. \"Go\nwith my Leave an' Goodwill.\"\n\n'Then I saw--then, they say, she had to brace back same as if she was\nwadin' in tide-water; for the Pharisees just about flowed past her--down\nthe beach to the boat, I dunnamany of 'em--with their wives an' childern\nan' valooables, all escapin' out of cruel Old England. Silver you could\nhear chinkin', an' liddle bundles hove down dunt on the bottom-boards,\nan' passels o' liddle swords an' shields raklin', an' liddle fingers an'\ntoes scratchin' on the boatside to board her when the two sons pushed\nher off. That boat she sunk lower an' lower, but all the Widow could see\nin it was her boys movin' hampered-like to get at the tackle. Up sail\nthey did, an' away they went, deep as a Rye barge, away into the\noff-shore mists, an' the Widow Whitgift she sat down an' eased her grief\ntill mornin' light.'\n\n'I never heard she was _all_ alone,' said Hobden.\n\n'I remember now. The one called Robin, he stayed with her, they tell.\nShe was all too grievious to listen to his promises.'\n\n'Ah! She should ha' made her bargain beforehand. I allus told my woman\nso!' Hobden cried.\n\n'No. She loaned her sons for a pure love-loan, bein' as she sensed the\nTrouble on the Marshes, an' was simple good-willin' to ease it.' Tom\nlaughed softly. 'She done that. Yes, she done that! From Hithe to\nBulverhithe, fretty man an' maid, ailin' woman an' wailin' child, they\ntook the advantage of the change in the thin airs just about _as_ soon\nas the Pharisees flitted. Folks come out fresh an' shinin' all over the\nMarsh like snails after wet. An' that while the Widow Whitgift sat\ngrievin' on the Wall. She might have belieft us--she might have trusted\nher sons would be sent back! She fussed, no bounds, when their boat come\nin after three days.'\n\n'And, of course, the sons were both quite cured?' said Una.\n\n'No-o. That would have been out o' Nature. She got 'em back as she sent\n'em. The blind man he hadn't seen naught of anythin', an' the dumb man\nnature-ally he couldn't say aught of what he'd seen. I reckon that was\nwhy the Pharisees pitched on 'em for the ferryin' job.'\n\n'But what did you--what did Robin promise the Widow?' said Dan.\n\n'What _did_ he promise, now?' Tom pretended to think. 'Wasn't your woman\na Whitgift, Ralph? Didn't she ever say?'\n\n'She told me a passel o' no-sense stuff when he was born.' Hobden\npointed at his son. 'There was always to be one of 'em that could see\nfurther into a millstone than most.'\n\n'Me! That's me!' said the Bee Boy so suddenly that they all laughed.\n\n'I've got it now!' cried Tom, slapping his knee. 'So long as Whitgift\nblood lasted, Robin promised there would allers be one o' her stock\nthat--that no Trouble 'ud lie on, no Maid 'ud sigh on, no Night could\nfrighten, no Fright could harm, no Harm could make sin, an' no Woman\ncould make a fool of.'\n\n'Well, ain't that just me?' said the Bee Boy, where he sat in the silver\nsquare of the great September moon that was staring into the oast-house\ndoor.\n\n'They was the exact words she told me when we first found he wasn't like\nothers. But it beats me how you known 'em,' said Hobden.\n\n'Aha! There's more under my hat besides hair?' Tom laughed and stretched\nhimself. 'When I've seen these two young folk home, we'll make a night\nof old days, Ralph, with passin' old tales--eh? An' where might you\nlive?' he said, gravely, to Dan. 'An' do you think your Pa 'ud give me a\ndrink for takin' you there, Missy?'\n\nThey giggled so at this that they had to run out. Tom picked them both\nup, set one on each broad shoulder, and tramped across the ferny pasture\nwhere the cows puffed milky puffs at them in the moonlight.\n\n'Oh, Puck! Puck! I guessed you right from when you talked about the\nsalt. How could you ever do it?' Una cried, swinging along delighted.\n\n'Do what?' he said, and climbed the stile by the pollard oak.\n\n'Pretend to be Tom Shoesmith,' said Dan, and they ducked to avoid the\ntwo little ashes that grow by the bridge over the brook. Tom was almost\nrunning.\n\n'Yes. That's my name, Mus' Dan,' he said, hurrying over the silent\nshining lawn, where a rabbit sat by the big white-thorn near the croquet\nground. 'Here you be.' He strode into the old kitchen yard, and slid\nthem down as Ellen came to ask questions.\n\n'I'm helping in Mus' Spray's oast-house,' he said to her. 'No, I'm no\nforeigner. I knowed this country 'fore your mother was born; an'--yes,\nit's dry work oastin', Miss. Thank you.'\n\nEllen went to get a jug, and the children went in--magicked once more by\nOak, Ash, and Thorn!\n\n\n\nA THREE-PART SONG\n\n\nI'm just in love with all these three,\nThe Weald an' the Marsh an' the Down countrie;\nNor I don't know which I love the most,\nThe Weald or the Marsh or the white chalk coast!\n\nI've buried my heart in a ferny hill,\nTwix' a liddle low shaw an' a great high gill.\nOh, hop-bine yaller an' woodsmoke blue,\nI reckon you'll keep her middling true!\n\nI've loosed my mind for to out an' run\nOn a Marsh that was old when Kings begun:\nOh, Romney level an' Brenzett reeds,\nI reckon you know what my mind needs!\n\nI've given my soul to the Southdown grass,\nAn' sheep-bells tinkled where you pass.\nOh, Firle an' Ditchling an' sails at sea,\nI reckon you keep my soul for me!\n\n\n\n\nTHE TREASURE AND THE LAW\n\n\n\nSONG OF THE FIFTH RIVER\n\n\nWhen first by Eden Tree\nThe Four Great Rivers ran,\nTo each was appointed a Man\nHer Prince and Ruler to be.\n\nBut after this was ordained,\n(The ancient legends tell),\nThere came dark Israel,\nFor whom no River remained.\n\nThen He That is Wholly Just\nSaid to him: 'Fling on the ground\nA handful of yellow dust,\nAnd a Fifth Great River shall run,\nMightier than these four,\nIn secret the Earth around;\nAnd Her secret evermore\nShall be shown to thee and thy Race.\n\nSo it was said and done.\nAnd, deep in the veins of Earth,\nAnd, fed by a thousand springs\nThat comfort the market-place,\nOr sap the power of Kings,\nThe Fifth Great River had birth,\nEven as it was foretold--\nThe Secret River of Gold!\n\nAnd Israel laid down\nHis sceptre and his crown,\nTo brood on that River bank,\nWhere the waters flashed and sank,\nAnd burrowed in earth and fell,\nAnd bided a season below;\nFor reason that none might know,\nSave only Israel.\n\nHe is Lord of the Last--\nThe Fifth, most wonderful, Flood.\nHe hears Her thunder past\nAnd Her song is in his blood.\nHe can foresay: 'She will fall,'\nFor he knows which fountain dries\nBehind which desert-belt\nA thousand leagues to the South.\nHe can foresay: 'She will rise.'\nHe knows what far snows melt;\nAlong what mountain-wall\nA thousand leagues to the North.\nHe snuffs the coming drought\nAs he snuffs the coming rain,\nHe knows what each will bring forth,\nAnd turns it to his gain.\n\nA Prince without a Sword,\nA Ruler without a Throne;\nIsrael follows his quest.\nIn every land a guest,\nOf many lands a lord,\nIn no land King is he.\nBut the Fifth Great River keeps\nThe secret of Her deeps\nFor Israel alone,\nAs it was ordered to be.\n\n\n\nThe Treasure and the Law\n\n\nNow it was the third week in November, and the woods rang with the noise\nof pheasant-shooting. No one hunted that steep, cramped country except\nthe village beagles, who, as often as not, escaped from their kennels\nand made a day of their own. Dan and Una found a couple of them towling\nround the kitchen-garden after the laundry cat. The little brutes were\nonly too pleased to go rabbiting, so the children ran them all along the\nbrook pastures and into Little Lindens farm-yard, where the old sow\nvanquished them--and up to the quarry-hole, where they started a fox. He\nheaded for Far Wood, and there they frightened out all the pheasants,\nwho were sheltering from a big beat across the valley. Then the cruel\nguns began again, and they grabbed the beagles lest they should stray\nand get hurt.\n\n'I wouldn't be a pheasant--in November--for a lot,' Dan panted, as he\ncaught _Folly_ by the neck. 'Why did you laugh that horrid way?'\n\n'I didn't,' said Una, sitting on _Flora_, the fat lady-dog. 'Oh, look!\nThe silly birds are going back to their own woods instead of ours, where\nthey would be safe.'\n\n'Safe till it pleased you to kill them.' An old man, so tall he was\nalmost a giant, stepped from behind the clump of hollies by Volaterrae.\nThe children jumped, and the dogs dropped like setters. He wore a\nsweeping gown of dark thick stuff, lined and edged with yellowish fur,\nand he bowed a bent-down bow that made them feel both proud and ashamed.\nThen he looked at them steadily, and they stared back without doubt or\nfear.\n\n'You are not afraid?' he said, running his hands through his splendid\ngrey beard. 'Not afraid that those men yonder'--he jerked his head\ntowards the incessant pop-pop of the guns from the lower woods--'will do\nyou hurt?'\n\n'We-ell'--Dan liked to be accurate, especially when he was shy--'old\nHobd--a friend of mine told me that one of the beaters got peppered last\nweek--hit in the leg, I mean. You see, Mr Meyer _will_ fire at rabbits.\nBut he gave Waxy Garnett a quid--sovereign, I mean--and Waxy told Hobden\nhe'd have stood both barrels for half the money.'\n\n'He doesn't understand,' Una cried, watching the pale, troubled face.\n'Oh, I wish----'\n\nShe had scarcely said it when Puck rustled out of the hollies and spoke\nto the man quickly in foreign words. Puck wore a long cloak too--the\nafternoon was just frosting down--and it changed his appearance\naltogether.\n\n'Nay, nay!' he said at last. 'You did not understand the boy. A freeman\nwas a little hurt, by pure mischance, at the hunting.'\n\n'I know that mischance! What did his Lord do? Laugh and ride over him?'\nthe old man sneered.\n\n'It was one of your own people did the hurt, Kadmiel.' Puck's eyes\ntwinkled maliciously. 'So he gave the freeman a piece of gold, and no\nmore was said.'\n\n'A Jew drew blood from a Christian and no more was said?' Kadmiel cried.\n'Never! When did they torture him?'\n\n'No man may be bound, or fined, or slain till he has been judged by his\npeers,' Puck insisted. 'There is but one Law in Old England for Jew or\nChristian--the Law that was signed at Runnymede.'\n\n'Why, that's Magna Charta!' Dan whispered. It was one of the few history\ndates that he could remember. Kadmiel turned on him with a sweep and a\nwhirr of his spicy-scented gown.\n\n'Dost _thou_ know of that, babe?' he cried, and lifted his hands in\nwonder.\n\n'Yes,' said Dan firmly.\n\n'Magna Charta was signed by John,\nThat Henry the Third put his heel upon.\n\nAnd old Hobden says that if it hadn't been for _her_ (he calls\neverything \"her\", you know), the keepers would have him clapped in Lewes\nGaol all the year round.'\n\nAgain Puck translated to Kadmiel in the strange, solemn-sounding\nlanguage, and at last Kadmiel laughed.\n\n'Out of the mouths of babes do we learn,' said he. 'But tell me now, and\nI will not call you a babe but a Rabbi, _why_ did the King sign the roll\nof the New Law at Runnymede? For he was a King.'\n\nDan looked sideways at his sister. It was her turn.\n\n'Because he jolly well had to,' said Una softly. 'The Barons made him.'\n\n'Nay,' Kadmiel answered, shaking his head. 'You Christians always forget\nthat gold does more than the sword. Our good King signed because he\ncould not borrow more money from us bad Jews.' He curved his shoulders\nas he spoke. 'A King without gold is a snake with a broken back,\nand'--his nose sneered up and his eyebrows frowned down--'it is a good\ndeed to break a snake's back. That was my work,' he cried, triumphantly,\nto Puck. 'Spirit of Earth, bear witness that that was _my_ work!' He\nshot up to his full towering height, and his words rang like a trumpet.\nHe had a voice that changed its tone almost as an opal changes\ncolour--sometimes deep and thundery, sometimes thin and waily, but\nalways it made you listen.\n\n'Many people can bear witness to that,' Puck answered. 'Tell these babes\nhow it was done. Remember, Master, they do not know Doubt or Fear.'\n\n'So I saw in their faces when we met,' said Kadmiel. 'Yet surely, surely\nthey are taught to spit upon Jews?'\n\n'Are they?' said Dan, much interested. 'Where at?'\n\nPuck fell back a pace, laughing. 'Kadmiel is thinking of King John's\nreign,' he explained. 'His people were badly treated then.'\n\n'Oh, we know _that_.' they answered, and (it was very rude of them, but\nthey could not help it) they stared straight at Kadmiel's mouth to see\nif his teeth were all there. It stuck in their lesson-memory that King\nJohn used to pull out Jews' teeth to make them lend him money.\n\nKadmiel understood the look and smiled bitterly.\n\n'No. Your King never drew my teeth: I think, perhaps, I drew his.\nListen! I was not born among Christians, but among Moors--in Spain--in a\nlittle white town under the mountains. Yes, the Moors are cruel, but at\nleast their learned men dare to think. It was prophesied of me at my\nbirth that I should be a Lawgiver to a People of a strange speech and a\nhard language. We Jews are always looking for the Prince and the\nLawgiver to come. Why not? My people in the town (we were very few) set\nme apart as a child of the prophecy--the Chosen of the Chosen. We Jews\ndream so many dreams. You would never guess it to see us slink about the\nrubbish-heaps in our quarter; but at the day's end--doors shut, candles\nlit--aha! _then_ we became the Chosen again.'\n\nHe paced back and forth through the wood as he talked. The rattle of the\nshot-guns never ceased, and the dogs whimpered a little and lay flat on\nthe leaves.\n\n'I was a Prince. Yes! Think of a little Prince who had never known\nrough words in his own house handed over to shouting, bearded Rabbis,\nwho pulled his ears and filliped his nose, all that he might\nlearn--learn--learn to be King when his time came. He! Such a little\nPrince it was! One eye he kept on the stone-throwing Moorish boys, and\nthe other it roved about the streets looking for his Kingdom. Yes, and\nhe learned to cry softly when he was hunted up and down those streets.\nHe learned to do all things without noise. He played beneath his\nfather's table when the Great Candle was lit, and he listened as\nchildren listen to the talk of his father's friends above the table.\nThey came across the mountains, from out of all the world, for my\nPrince's father was their counsellor. They came from behind the armies\nof Sala-ud-Din: from Rome: from Venice: from England. They stole down\nour alley, they tapped secretly at our door, they took off their rags,\nthey arrayed themselves, and they talked to my father at the wine. All\nover the world the heathen fought each other. They brought news of these\nwars, and while he played beneath the table, my Prince heard these\nmeanly dressed ones decide between themselves how, and when, and for how\nlong King should draw sword against King, and People rise up against\nPeople. Why not? There can be no war without gold, and we Jews know how\nthe earth's gold moves with the seasons, and the crops, and the winds;\ncircling and looping and rising and sinking away like a river--a\nwonderful underground river. How should the foolish Kings know _that_\nwhile they fight and steal and kill?'\n\nThe children's faces showed that they knew nothing at all as, with open\neyes, they trotted and turned beside the long-striding old man. He\ntwitched his gown over his shoulders, and a square plate of gold,\nstudded with jewels, gleamed for an instant through the fur, like a star\nthrough flying snow.\n\n'No matter,' he said. 'But, credit me, my Prince saw peace or war\ndecided not once, but many times, by the fall of a coin spun between a\nJew from Bury and a Jewess from Alexandria, in his father's house, when\nthe Great Candle was lit. Such power had we Jews among the Gentiles. Ah,\nmy little Prince! Do you wonder that he learned quickly? Why not?' He\nmuttered to himself and went on:--\n\n'My trade was that of a physician. When I had learned it in Spain I went\nto the East to find my Kingdom. Why not? A Jew is as free as a\nsparrow--or a dog. He goes where he is hunted. In the East I found\nlibraries where men dared to think--schools of medicine where they dared\nto learn. I was diligent in my business. Therefore I stood before Kings.\nI have been a brother to Princes and a companion to beggars, and I have\nwalked between the living and the dead. There was no profit in it. I did\nnot find my Kingdom. So, in the tenth year of my travels, when I had\nreached the Uttermost Eastern Sea, I returned to my father's house. God\nhad wonderfully preserved my people. None had been slain, none even\nwounded, and only a few scourged. I became once more a son in my\nfather's house. Again the Great Candle was lit; again the meanly\napparelled ones tapped on our door after dusk; and again I heard them\nweigh out peace and war, as they weighed out the gold on the table. But\nI was not rich--not very rich. Therefore, when those that had power and\nknowledge and wealth talked together, I sat in the shadow. Why not?\n\n'Yet all my wanderings had shown me one sure thing, which is, that a\nKing without money is like a spear without a head. He cannot do much\nharm. I said, therefore, to Elias of Bury, a great one among our people:\n\"Why do our people lend any more to the Kings that oppress us?\"\n\"Because,\" said Elias, \"if we refuse they stir up their people against\nus, and the People are tenfold more cruel than Kings. If thou doubtest,\ncome with me to Bury in England and live as I live.\"\n\n'I saw my mother's face across the candle flame, and I said, \"I will\ncome with thee to Bury. Maybe my Kingdom shall be there.\"\n\n'So I sailed with Elias to the darkness and the cruelty of Bury in\nEngland, where there are no learned men. How can a man be wise if he\nhate? At Bury I kept his accounts for Elias, and I saw men kill Jews\nthere by the tower. No--none laid hands on Elias. He lent money to the\nKing, and the King's favour was about him. A King will not take the life\nso long as there is any gold. This King--yes, John--oppressed his people\nbitterly because they would not give him money. Yet his land was a good\nland. If he had only given it rest he might have cropped it as a\nChristian crops his beard. But even _that_ little he did not know, for\nGod had deprived him of all understanding, and had multiplied\npestilence, and famine, and despair upon the people. Therefore his\npeople turned against us Jews, who are all people's dogs. Why not?\nLastly the Barons and the people rose together against the King because\nof his cruelties. Nay--nay--the Barons did not love the people, but they\nsaw that if the King cut up and destroyed the common people, he would\npresently destroy the Barons. They joined then, as cats and pigs will\njoin to slay a snake. I kept the accounts, and I watched all these\nthings, for I remembered the Prophecy.\n\n'A great gathering of Barons (to most of whom we had lent money) came to\nBury, and there, after much talk and a thousand runnings-about, they\nmade a roll of the New Laws that they would force on the King. If he\nswore to keep those Laws, they would allow him a little money. That was\nthe King's God--Money--to waste. They showed us the roll of the New\nLaws. Why not? We had lent them money. We knew all their counsels--we\nJews shivering behind our doors in Bury.' He threw out his hands\nsuddenly. 'We did not seek to be paid _all_ in money. We sought\nPower--Power--Power! That is _our_ God in our captivity. Power to use!\n\n'I said to Elias: \"These New Laws are good. Lend no more money to the\nKing: so long as he has money he will lie and slay the people.\"\n\n'\"Nay,\" said Elias. \"I know this people. They are madly cruel. Better\none King than a thousand butchers. I have lent a little money to the\nBarons, or they would torture us, but my most I will lend to the King.\nHe hath promised me a place near him at Court, where my wife and I shall\nbe safe.\"\n\n'\"But if the King be made to keep these New Laws,\" I said, \"the land\nwill have peace, and our trade will grow. If we lend he will fight\nagain.\"\n\n'\"Who made thee a Lawgiver in England?\" said Elias. \"I know this people.\nLet the dogs tear one another! I will lend the King ten thousand pieces\nof gold, and he can fight the Barons at his pleasure.\"\n\n'\"There are not two thousand pieces of gold in all England this summer,\"\nI said, for I kept the accounts, and I knew how the earth's gold\nmoved--that wonderful underground river. Elias barred home the windows,\nand, his hands about his mouth, he told me how, when he was trading with\nsmall wares in a French ship, he had come to the Castle of Pevensey.'\n\n'Oh!' said Dan. 'Pevensey again!' and looked at Una, who nodded and\nskipped.\n\n'There, after they had scattered his pack up and down the Great Hall,\nsome young knights carried him to an upper room, and dropped him into a\nwell in a wall, that rose and fell with the tide. They called him\nJoseph, and threw torches at his wet head. Why not?'\n\n'Why, of course!' cried Dan. 'Didn't you know it was----' Puck held up\nhis hand to stop him, and Kadmiel, who never noticed, went on.\n\n'When the tide dropped he thought he stood on old armour, but feeling\nwith his toes, he raked up bar on bar of soft gold. Some wicked treasure\nof the old days put away, and the secret cut off by the sword. I have\nheard the like before.'\n\n'So have we,' Una whispered. 'But it wasn't wicked a bit.'\n\n'Elias took a little of the stuff with him, and thrice yearly he would\nreturn to Pevensey as a chapman, selling at no price or profit, till\nthey suffered him to sleep in the empty room, where he would plumb and\ngrope, and steal away a few bars. The great store of it still remained,\nand by long brooding he had come to look on it as his own. Yet when we\nthought how we should lift and convey it, we saw no way. This was before\nthe Word of the Lord had come to me. A walled fortress possessed by\nNormans; in the midst a forty-foot tide-well out of which to remove\nsecretly many horse-loads of gold! Hopeless! So Elias wept. Adah, his\nwife, wept too. She had hoped to stand beside the Queen's Christian\ntiring-maids at Court when the King should give them that place at Court\nwhich he had promised. Why not? She was born in England--an odious\nwoman.\n\n'The present evil to us was that Elias, out of his strong folly, had, as\nit were, promised the King that he would arm him with more gold.\nWherefore the King in his camp stopped his ears against the Barons and\nthe people. Wherefore men died daily. Adah so desired her place at\nCourt, she besought Elias to tell the King where the treasure lay, that\nthe King might take it by force, and--they would trust in his gratitude.\nWhy not? This Elias refused to do, for he looked on the gold as his own.\nThey quarrelled, and they wept at the evening meal, and late in the\nnight came one Langton--a priest, almost learned--to borrow more money\nfor the Barons. Elias and Adah went to their chamber.'\n\nKadmiel laughed scornfully in his beard. The shots across the valley\nstopped as the shooting party changed their ground for the last beat.\n\n'So it was I, not Elias,' he went on quietly, 'that made terms with\nLangton touching the fortieth of the New Laws.'\n\n'What terms?' said Puck quickly. 'The Fortieth of the Great Charter\nsays: \"To none will we sell, refuse, or delay right or justice.\"'\n\n'True, but the Barons had written first: _To no free man_. It cost me\ntwo hundred broad pieces of gold to change those narrow words. Langton,\nthe priest, understood. \"Jew though thou art,\" said he, \"the change is\njust, and if ever Christian and Jew came to be equal in England thy\npeople may thank thee.\" Then he went out stealthily, as men do who deal\nwith Israel by night. I think he spent my gift upon his altar. Why not?\nI have spoken with Langton. He was such a man as I might have been\nif--if we Jews had been a people. But yet, in many things, a child.\n\n'I heard Elias and Adah abovestairs quarrel, and, knowing the woman was\nthe stronger, I saw that Elias would tell the King of the gold and that\nthe King would continue in his stubbornness. Therefore I saw that the\ngold must be put away from the reach of any man. Of a sudden, the Word\nof the Lord came to me saying, \"The Morning is come, O thou that\ndwellest in the land.\"'\n\nKadmiel halted, all black against the pale green sky beyond the wood--a\nhuge robed figure, like the Moses in the picture-Bible.\n\n'I rose. I went out, and as I shut the door on that House of\nFoolishness, the woman looked from the window and whispered, \"I have\nprevailed on my husband to tell the King!\" I answered: \"There is no\nneed. The Lord is with me.\"\n\n'In that hour the Lord gave me full understanding of all that I must do;\nand His Hand covered me in my ways. First I went to London, to a\nphysician of our people, who sold me certain drugs that I needed. You\nshall see why. Thence I went swiftly to Pevensey. Men fought all around\nme, for there were neither rulers nor judges in the abominable land. Yet\nwhen I walked by them they cried out that I was one Ahasuerus, a Jew,\ncondemned, as they believe, to live for ever, and they fled from me\neveryways. Thus the Lord saved me for my work, and at Pevensey I bought\nme a little boat and moored it on the mud beneath the Marsh-gate of the\nCastle. That also God showed me.'\n\nHe was as calm as though he were speaking of some stranger, and his\nvoice filled the little bare wood with rolling music.\n\n'I cast'--his hand went to his breast, and again the strange jewel\ngleamed--'I cast the drugs which I had prepared into the common well of\nthe Castle. Nay, I did no harm. The more we physicians know, the less do\nwe do. Only the fool says: \"I dare.\" I caused a blotched and itching\nrash to break out upon their skins, but I knew it would fade in fifteen\ndays. I did not stretch out my hand against their life. They in the\nCastle thought it was the Plague, and they ran out, taking with them\ntheir very dogs.\n\n'A Christian physician, seeing that I was a Jew and a stranger, vowed\nthat I had brought the sickness from London. This is the one time I have\never heard a Christian leech speak truth of any disease. Thereupon the\npeople beat me, but a merciful woman said: \"Do not kill him now. Push\nhim into our Castle with his Plague, and if, as he says, it will abate\non the fifteenth day, we can kill him then.\" Why not? They drove me\nacross the drawbridge of the Castle, and fled back to their booths. Thus\nI came to be alone with the treasure.'\n\n'But did you know this was all going to happen just right?' said Una.\n\n'My Prophecy was that I should be a Lawgiver to a People of a strange\nland and a hard speech. I knew I should not die. I washed my cuts. I\nfound the tide-well in the wall, and from Sabbath to Sabbath I dove and\ndug there in that empty, Christian-smelling fortress. He! I spoiled the\nEgyptians! He! If they had only known! I drew up many good loads of\ngold, which I loaded by night into my boat. There had been gold-dust\ntoo, but that had been washed out by the tides.'\n\n'Didn't you ever wonder who had put it there?' said Dan, stealing a\nglance at Puck's calm, dark face under the hood of his gown. Puck shook\nhis head and pursed his lips.\n\n'Often; for the gold was new to me,' Kadmiel replied. 'I know the Golds.\nI can judge them in the dark; but this was heavier and redder than any\nwe deal in. Perhaps it was the very gold of Parvaim. Eh, why not? It\nwent to my heart to heave it on to the mud, but I saw well that if the\nevil thing remained, or if even the hope of finding it remained, the\nKing would not sign the New Laws, and the land would perish.'\n\n'Oh, Marvel!' said Puck, beneath his breath, rustling in the dead\nleaves.\n\n'When the boat was loaded I washed my hands seven times, and pared\nbeneath my nails, for I would not keep one grain. I went out by the\nlittle gate where the Castle's refuse is thrown. I dared not hoist sail\nlest men should see me; but the Lord commanded the tide to bear me\ncarefully, and I was far from land before the morning.'\n\n'Weren't you afraid?' said Una.\n\n'Why? There were no Christians in the boat. At sunrise I made my prayer,\nand cast the gold--all--all that gold--into the deep sea! A King's\nransom--no, the ransom of a People! When I had loosed hold of the last\nbar, the Lord commanded the tide to return me to a haven at the mouth of\na river, and thence I walked across a wilderness to Lewes, where I have\nbrethren. They opened the door to me, and they say--I had not eaten for\ntwo days--they say that I fell across the threshold, crying: \"I have\nsunk an army with horsemen in the sea!\"'\n\n'But you hadn't,' said Una. 'Oh, yes! I see! You meant that King John\nmight have spent it on that?'\n\n'Even so,' said Kadmiel.\n\nThe firing broke out again close behind them. The pheasants poured over\nthe top of a belt of tall firs. They could see young Mr Meyer, in his\nnew yellow gaiters, very busy and excited at the end of the line, and\nthey could hear the thud of the falling birds.\n\n'But what did Elias of Bury do?' Puck demanded. 'He had promised money\nto the King.'\n\nKadmiel smiled grimly. 'I sent him word from London that the Lord was on\nmy side. When he heard that the Plague had broken out in Pevensey, and\nthat a Jew had been thrust into the Castle to cure it, he understood my\nword was true. He and Adah hurried to Lewes and asked me for an\naccounting. He still looked on the gold as his own. I told them where I\nhad laid it, and I gave them full leave to pick it up ... Eh, well! The\ncurses of a fool and the dust of a journey are two things no wise man\ncan escape ... But I pitied Elias! The King was wroth with him because\nhe could not lend; the Barons were wroth too because they heard that he\nwould have lent to the King; and Adah was wroth with him because she was\nan odious woman. They took ship from Lewes to Spain. That was wise!'\n\n'And you? Did you see the signing of the Law at Runnymede?' said Puck,\nas Kadmiel laughed noiselessly.\n\n'Nay. Who am I to meddle with things too high for me? I returned to\nBury, and lent money on the autumn crops. Why not?'\n\nThere was a crackle overhead. A cock-pheasant that had sheered aside\nafter being hit spattered down almost on top of them, driving up the dry\nleaves like a shell. _Flora_ and _Folly_ threw themselves at it; the\nchildren rushed forward, and when they had beaten them off and smoothed\ndown the plumage Kadmiel had disappeared.\n\n'Well,' said Puck calmly, 'what did you think of it? Weland gave the\nSword! The Sword gave the Treasure, and the Treasure gave the Law. It's\nas natural as an oak growing.'\n\n'I don't understand. Didn't he know it was Sir Richard's old treasure?'\nsaid Dan. 'And why did Sir Richard and Brother Hugh leave it lying\nabout? And--and----'\n\n'Never mind,' said Una politely. 'He'll let us come and go and look and\nknow another time. Won't you, Puck?'\n\n'Another time maybe,' Puck answered. 'Brr! It's cold--and late. I'll\nrace you towards home!'\n\nThey hurried down into the sheltered valley. The sun had almost sunk\nbehind Cherry Clack, the trodden ground by the cattle-gates was freezing\nat the edges, and the new-waked north wind blew the night on them from\nover the hills. They picked up their feet and flew across the browned\npastures, and when they halted, panting in the steam of their own\nbreath, the dead leaves whirled up behind them. There was Oak and Ash\nand Thorn enough in that year-end shower to magic away a thousand\nmemories.\n\nSo they trotted to the brook at the bottom of the lawn, wondering why\n_Flora_ and _Folly_ had missed the quarry-hole fox.\n\nOld Hobden was just finishing some hedge-work. They saw his white smock\nglimmer in the twilight where he faggoted the rubbish.\n\n'Winter, he's come, I reckon, Mus' Dan,' he called. 'Hard times now till\nHeffle Cuckoo Fair. Yes, we'll all be glad to see the Old Woman let the\nCuckoo out o' the basket for to start lawful Spring in England.'\n\nThey heard a crash, and a stamp and a splash of water as though a heavy\nold cow were crossing almost under their noses.\n\nHobden ran forward angrily to the ford.\n\n'Gleason's bull again, playin' Robin all over the Farm! Oh, look, Mus'\nDan--his great footmark as big as a trencher. No bounds to his\nimpidence! He might count himself to be a man or--or Somebody----'\n\nA voice the other side of the brook boomed:\n\n'I wonder who his cloak would turn\nWhen Puck had led him round,\nOr where those walking fires would burn----'\n\nThen the children went in singing 'Farewell Rewards and Fairies' at the\ntops of their voices. They had forgotten that they had not even said\ngood-night to Puck.\n\n\n\nTHE CHILDREN'S SONG\n\n\nLand of our Birth, we pledge to thee\nOur love and toil in the years to be;\nWhen we are grown and take our place,\nAs men and women with our race.\n\nFather in Heaven Who lovest all,\nOh, help Thy children when they call;\nThat they may build from age to age,\nAn undefiled heritage.\n\nTeach us to bear the yoke in youth,\nWith steadfastness and careful truth;\nThat, in our time, Thy Grace may give\nThe Truth whereby the Nations live.\n\nTeach us to rule ourselves alway,\nControlled and cleanly night and day;\nThat we may bring, if need arise,\nNo maimed or worthless sacrifice.\n\nTeach us to look in all our ends,\nOn Thee for judge, and not our friends;\nThat we, with Thee, may walk uncowed\nBy fear or favour of the crowd.\n\nTeach us the Strength that cannot seek,\nBy deed or thought, to hurt the weak;\nThat, under Thee, we may possess\nMan's strength to comfort man's distress.\n\nTeach us Delight in simple things,\nAnd Mirth that has no bitter springs;\nForgiveness free of evil done,\nAnd Love to all men 'neath the sun!\n\nLand of our Birth, our faith, our pride,\nFor whose dear sake our fathers died;\nO Motherland, we pledge to thee\nHead, heart and hand through the years to be!\n\n\n----------------------------------------------------------------","title":"Puck of Pook's Hill","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":57774}