med of this rude farmer;
but for all you have done in kindness and charity to him and to others
of our people, I thank you and wish you well." Then he picked up his
fishing-rod--it looked more like a tall spear than ever--and tramped
off down your valley.'

'And what did poor Weland do?' said Una.

'He laughed and he cried with joy, because he had been released at
last, and could go away. But he was an honest Old Thing. He had
worked for his living and he paid his debts before he left. "I shall
give that novice a gift," said Weland. "A gift that shall do him good
the wide world over and Old England after him. Blow up my fire, Old
Thing, while I get the iron for my last task." Then he made a sword--a
dark-grey, wavy-lined sword--and I blew the fire while he hammered. By
Oak, Ash and Thorn, I tell you, Weland was a Smith of the Gods! He
cooled that sword in running water twice, and the third time he cooled
it in the evening dew, and he laid it out in the moonlight and said
Runes (that's charms) over it, and he carved Runes of Prophecy on the
blade. "Old Thing," he said to me, wiping his forehead, "this is the
best blade that Weland ever made. Even the user will never know how
good it is. Come to the monastery."

'We went to the dormitory where the monks slept, we saw the novice fast
asleep in his cot, and Weland put the sword into his hand, and I
remember the young fellow gripped it in his sleep. Then Weland strode
as far as he dared into the Chapel and threw down all his
shoeing-tools--his hammers and pincers and rasps--to show that he had
done with them for ever. It sounded like suits of armour falling, and
the sleepy monks ran in, for they thought the monastery had been
attacked by the French. The novice came first of all, waving his new
sword and shouting Saxon battle-cries. When they saw the shoeing-tools
they were very bewildered, till the novice asked leave to speak, and
told what he had done to the farmer, and what he had said to
Wayland-Smith, and how, though the dormitory light was burning, he had
found the wonderful Rune-carved sword in his cot.

'The Abbot shook his head at first, and then he laughed and said to the
novice: "Son Hugh, it needed no sign from a heathen God to show me
that you will never be a monk. Take your sword, and keep your sword,
and go with your sword, and be as gentle as you are strong and
courteous. We will hang up the Smith's tools before the Altar," he
said, "becau