ang through the temple. The bronze knife was raised
over Quentin. He could not believe that this, this horror, was the end
of all these wonderful happenings.

'No--no,' he cried, 'it's not true. I'm not the Chosen of the Gods! I'm
only a little boy that's got here by accidental magic!'

'Silence,' cried the priest, 'Chosen of the Immortals, close your eyes!
It will not hurt. This life is only a dream; the other life is the real
life. Be strong, be brave!'

Quentin was not brave. But he shut his eyes. He could not help it. The
glitter of the bronze knife in the sunlight was too strong for him.

He could not believe that this could really have happened to him. Every
one had been so kind--so friendly to him. And it was all for this!

Suddenly a sharp touch at his side told him that for this, indeed, it
had all been. He felt the point of the knife.

'Mother!' he cried. And opened his eyes again.

He always felt quite sure afterwards that 'Mother' was the master-word,
the spell of spells. For when he opened his eyes there was no priest, no
white-robed worshippers, no splendour of colour and metal, no Chosen of
the Gods, no knife--only a little boy with a piece of sacking over him,
damp with the night dews, lying on a stone amid the grey ruins of
Stonehenge, and, all about him, a crowd of tourists who had come to see
the sun's first shaft strike the age-old altar of Stonehenge on
Midsummer Day in the morning. And instead of a knife point at his side
there was only the ferrule of the umbrella of an elderly and retired tea
merchant in a mackintosh and an Alpine hat,--a ferrule which had prodded
the sleeping boy so unexpectedly surprised on the very altar stone where
the sun's ray now lingered.

And then, in a moment, he knew that he had not uttered the spell in
vain, the word of compelling, the word of power: for his mother was
there kneeling beside him. I am sorry to say that he cried as he clung
to her. _We_ cannot all of us be brave, always.

The tourists were very kind and interested, and the tea merchant
insisted on giving Quentin something out of a flask, which was so nasty
that Quentin only pretended to drink, out of politeness. His mother had
a carriage waiting, and they escaped to it while the tourists were
saying, 'How romantic!' and asking each other whatever in the world had
happened.

* * * * *

'But how _did_ you come to be there, darling?' said his mother with warm
hand