nd put a white dress on him, rather like a
night-shirt without sleeves. And they put a thick wreath of London Pride
on his head and another, larger and longer, round his neck.

'If only the chaps at school could see me now!' he said to himself
proudly.

And by this time it was gray dawn.

'Lie down now,' said Blue Mantle, 'lie down, O Beloved of the Gods, upon
the altar stone, for the last time.'

'I shall be able to go, then?' Quentin asked. This accidental magic was,
he perceived, a tricky thing, and he wanted to be sure.

'You will not be able to stay,' said the priest. 'If going is what you
desire, the desire of the Chosen of the Gods is fully granted.'

The grass on the plain far and near rustled with the tread of many feet;
the cold air of dawn thrilled to the awed murmured of many voices.

Quentin lay down, with his pink wreaths and his white robe, and watched
the quickening pinkiness of the East. And slowly the great circle of the
temple filled with white-robed folk, all carrying in their hands the
faint pinkiness of the flowers which we nowadays call London Pride.

And all eyes were fixed on the arch through which, at sunrise on
Midsummer Day, the sun's first beam should fall upon the white, new,
clean altar stone. The stone is still there, after all these thousands
of years, and at sunrise on Midsummer Day the sun's first ray still
falls on it.

[Illustration: 'Silence,' cried the priest. 'Chosen of the Immortals,
close your eyes!']

The sky grew lighter and lighter, and at last the sun peered redly over
the down, and the first ray of the morning sunlight fell full on the
altar stone and on the face of Quentin.

And, as it did so, a very tall, white-robed priest with a deer-skin
apron and a curious winged head-dress stepped forward. He carried a
great bronze knife, and he waved it ten times in the shaft of sunlight
that shot through the arch and on to the altar stone.

'Thus,' he cried, 'thus do I bathe the sacred blade in the pure fountain
of all light, all wisdom, all splendour. In the name of the ten kings,
the ten virtues, the ten hopes, the ten fears I make my weapon clean!
May this temple of our love and our desire endure for ever, so long as
the glory of our Lord the Sun is shed upon this earth. May the sacrifice
I now humbly and proudly offer be acceptable to the gods by whom it has
been so miraculously provided. Chosen of the Gods! return to the gods
who sent thee!'

A roar of voices r