on Beacon Hill--they called it Brunanburgh then--when
I saw the pale flame that burning thatch makes, and I went down to
look. Some pirates--I think they must have been Peor's men--were
burning a village on the Levels, and Weland's image--a big, black
wooden thing with amber beads round his neck--lay in the bows of a
black thirty-two-oar galley that they had just beached. Bitter cold it
was! There were icicles hanging from her deck and the oars were glazed
over with ice, and there was ice on Weland's lips. When he saw me he
began a long chant in his own tongue, telling me how he was going to
rule England, and how I should smell the smoke of his altars from
Lincolnshire to the Isle of Wight. I didn't care! I'd seen too many
Gods charging into Old England to be upset about it. I let him sing
himself out while his men were burning the village, and then I said (I
don't know what put it into my head), "Smith of the Gods," I said, "the
time comes when I shall meet you plying your trade for hire by the
wayside."'

'What did Weland say?' said Una. 'Was he angry?'

'He called me names and rolled his eyes, and I went away to wake up the
people inland. But the pirates conquered the country, and for
centuries Weland was a most important God. He had temples
everywhere--from Lincolnshire to the Isle of Wight, as he said--and his
sacrifices were simply scandalous. To do him justice, he preferred
horses to men; but men or horses, I knew that presently he'd have to
come down in the world--like the other Old Things. I gave him lots of
time--I gave him about a thousand years--and at the end of 'em I went
into one of his temples near Andover to see how he prospered. There was
his altar, and there was his image, and there were his priests, and
there were the congregation, and everybody seemed quite happy, except
Weland and the priests. In the old days the congregation were unhappy
until the priests had chosen their sacrifices; and so would you have
been. When the service began a priest rushed out, dragged a man up to
the altar, pretended to hit him on the head with a little gilt axe, and
the man fell down and pretended to die. Then everybody shouted: "A
sacrifice to Weland! A sacrifice to Weland!"'

'And the man wasn't really dead?' said Una.

'Not a bit. All as much pretence as a dolls' tea-party. Then they
brought out a splendid white horse, and the priest cut some hair from
its mane and tail and burned it on the altar,