‘And what happened to Gilbert?’ said Dan.

’Not even a whipping.  De Aquila said he would sooner a clerk, however false, that knew the Manor-roll than a fool, however true, that must be taught his work afresh.  Moreover, after that night I think Gilbert loved as much as he feared De Aquila.  At least he would not leave us—­not even when Vivian, the King’s Clerk, would have made him Sacristan of Battle Abbey.  A false fellow, but, in his fashion, bold.’

‘Did Robert ever land in Pevensey after all?’ Dan went on.

’We guarded the coast too well while Henry was fighting his Barons; and three or four years later, when England had peace, Henry crossed to Normandy and showed his brother some work at Tenchebrai that cured Robert of fighting.  Many of Henry’s men sailed from Pevensey to that war.  Fulke came, I remember, and we all four lay in the little chamber once again, and drank together.  De Aquila was right.  One should not judge men.  Fulke was merry.  Yes, always merry—­with a catch in his breath.’

‘And what did you do afterwards?’ said Una.

’We talked together of times past.  That is all men can do when they grow old, little maid.’

The bell for tea rang faintly across the meadows.  Dan lay in the bows of the Golden Hind; Una in the stern, the book of verses open in her lap, was reading from ‘The Slave’s Dream’: 

’Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,
He saw his native land.’

‘I don’t know when you began that,’ said Dan, sleepily.

On the middle thwart of the boat, beside Una’s sun-bonnet, lay an Oak leaf, an Ash leaf, and a Thorn leaf, that must have dropped down from the trees above; and the brook giggled as though it had just seen some joke.

THE RUNES ON WELAND’S SWORD

A Smith makes me
To betray my Man
In my first fight.

To gather Gold
At the world’s end
I am sent.

The Gold I gather
Comes into England
Out of deep Water.

Like a shining Fish
Then it descends
Into deep Water.

It is not given
For goods or gear,
But for The Thing.

The Gold I gather
A King covets
For an ill use.

The Gold I gather
Is drawn up
Out of deep Water.

Like a shining Fish
Then it descends
Into deep Water.

It is not given
For goods or gear,
But for The Thing.

A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH

Cities and Thrones and Powers
  Stand in Time’s eye,
Almost as long as flowers,
  Which daily die. 
But, as new buds put forth
  To glad new men,
Out of the spent and unconsidered Earth,
  The Cities rise again.

This season’s Daffodil,
  She never hears,
What change, what chance, what chill,
  Cut down last year’s: 
But with bold countenance,
  And knowledge small,
Esteems her seven days’ continuance
  To be perpetual.