But more:  the survivors of the conquest might, perhaps, escape, and carry their wasp-fetish into a new land.  But if they became poor and weakly, their brains and imagination, degenerating with their bodies, would degrade their wasp-worship till they knew not what it meant.  Away from the sacred tree, in a country the wasps of which were not so large or formidable, they would require a remembrancer of the wasp-king; and they would make one—­a wasp of wood, or what not.  After a while, according to that strange law of fancy, the root of all idolatry, which you may see at work in every child who plays with a doll, the symbol would become identified with the thing symbolised; they would invest the wooden wasp with all the terrible attributes which had belonged to the live wasps of the tree; and after a few centuries, when all remembrance of the tree, the wasp-prophet and chieftain, and his descent from the divine wasp—­ay, even of their defeat and flight—­had vanished from their songs and legends, they would be found bowing down in fear and trembling to a little ancient wooden wasp, which came from they knew not whence, and meant they knew not what, save that it was a very “old fetish,” a “great medicine,” or some such other formula for expressing their own ignorance and dread.  Just so do the half-savage natives of Thibet, and the Irishwomen of Kerry, by a strange coincidence—­ unless the ancient Irish were Buddhists, like the Himalayans—­tie just the same scraps of rag on the bushes round just the same holy wells, as do the Negros of Central Africa upon their “Devil’s Trees;” they know not why, save that their ancestors did it, and it is a charm against ill-luck and danger.

And the sacred tree?  That, too, might undergo a metamorphosis in the minds of men.  The conquerors would see their aboriginal slaves of the old race still haunting the tree, making stealthy offerings to it by night:  and they would ask the reason.  But they would not be told.  The secret would be guarded; such secrets were guarded, in Greece, in Italy, in medieval France, by the superstitious awe, the cunning, even the hidden self-conceit, of the conquered race.  Then the conquerors would wish to imitate their own slaves.  They might be in the right.  There might be something magical, uncanny, in the hollow tree, which might hurt them; might be jealous of them as intruders.  They, too, would invest the place with sacred awe.  If they were gloomy, like the Teutonic conquerors of Europe and the Arabian conquerors of the East, they would invest it with unseen terrors.  They would say, like them, a devil lives in the tree.  If they were of a sunny temper, like the Hellenes, they would invest it with unseen graces.  What a noble tree!  What a fair fountain hard by its roots!  Surely some fair and graceful being must dwell therein, and come out to bathe by night in that clear wave.  What meant the fruit, the flowers, the honey, which the slaves left there by night?