e shiny dew and his
fishing-rod across his shoulders spearwise. When we reached the Ford
again--it was five o'clock and misty still under the oaks--the farmer simply
wouldn't say "Thank you." He said he'd tell the Abbot that the novice
wanted him to worship heathen gods. Then Hugh the novice lost his temper.
He just cried, "Out!" put his arm under the farmer's fat leg, and heaved
him from his saddle on to the turf, and before he could rise he caught him
by the back of the neck and shook him like a rat till the farmer growled,
"Thank you, Wayland-Smith."'

'Did Weland see all this?' said Dan.

'Oh, yes, and he shouted his old war-cry when the farmer thudded on to the
ground. He was delighted. Then the novice turned to the oak and said, "Ho!
Smith of the Gods, I am ashamed 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 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 hammer, 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