farmer shouting, and asked him what in the world he meant.  The old man spun him a wonderful tale about fairies and goblins and witches; and I know he hadn’t seen a thing except rabbits and red deer all that night. (The People of the Hills are like otters—­they don’t show except when they choose.) But the novice wasn’t a fool.  He looked down at the horse’s feet, and saw the new shoes fastened as only Weland knew how to fasten ’em. (Weland had a way of turning down the nails that folks called the Smith’s Clinch.)

’"H’m!” said the novice.  “Where did you get your horse shod?”

’The farmer wouldn’t tell him at first, because the priests never liked their people to have any dealings with the Old Things.  At last he confessed that the Smith had done it.  “What did you pay him?” said the novice.  “Penny,” said the farmer, very sulkily.  “That’s less than a Christian would have charged,” said the novice.  “I hope you threw a ‘Thank you’ into the bargain.”  “No,” said the farmer; “Wayland-Smith’s a heathen.”  “Heathen or no heathen,” said the novice, “you took his help, and where you get help there you must give thanks.”  “What?” said the farmer—­he was in a furious temper because I was walking the old horse in circles all this time—­“What, you young jackanapes?” said he.  “Then by your reasoning I ought to say ‘Thank you’ to Satan if he helped me?” “Don’t roll about up there splitting reasons with me,” said the novice.  “Come back to the Ford and thank the Smith, or you’ll be sorry.”

’Back the farmer had to go.  I led the horse, though no one saw me, and the novice walked beside us, his gown swishing through the shiny dew and his fishing-rod across his shoulders, spear-wise.  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 tree 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.