‘What does the Faun mean,’ he said, half aloud to himself, ’by telling me that the Painted People have changed?’ He caught sight of Una’s yellow head.  ‘Have you seen a painted lead-slinger?’ he called.

‘No-o,’ said Una.  ‘But if you’ve seen a bullet——­’

‘Seen?’ cried the man.  ‘It passed within a hair’s breadth of my ear.’

‘Well, that was me.  I’m most awfully sorry.’

‘Didn’t the Faun tell you I was coming?’ He smiled.

’Not if you mean Puck.  I thought you were a Gleason cow.  I—­I didn’t know you were a—­a——­What are you?’

He laughed outright, showing a set of splendid teeth.  His face and eyes were dark, and his eyebrows met above his big nose in one bushy black bar.

’They call me Parnesius.  I have been a Centurion of the Seventh Cohort of the Thirtieth Legion—­the Ulpia Victrix.  Did you sling that bullet?’

‘I did.  I was using Dan’s catapult,’ said Una.

‘Catapults!’ said he.  ‘I ought to know something about them.  Show me!’

He leaped the rough fence with a rattle of spear, shield, and armour, and hoisted himself into Volaterrae as quickly as a shadow.

‘A sling on a forked stick.  I understand!’ he cried, and pulled at the elastic.  ‘But what wonderful beast yields this stretching leather?’

’It’s laccy—­elastic.  You put the bullet into that loop, and then you pull hard.’

The man pulled, and hit himself square on his thumb-nail.

‘Each to his own weapon,’ he said gravely, handing it back.  ’I am better with the bigger machine, little maiden.  But it’s a pretty toy.  A wolf would laugh at it.  Aren’t you afraid of wolves?’

‘There aren’t any,’ said Una.

’Never believe it!  A wolf’s like a Winged Hat.  He comes when he isn’t expected.  Don’t they hunt wolves here?’

‘We don’t hunt,’ said Una, remembering what she had heard from grown-ups.  ‘We preserve—­pheasants.  Do you know them?’

‘I ought to,’ said the young man, smiling again, and he imitated the cry of the cock-pheasant so perfectly that a bird answered out of the wood.

‘What a big painted clucking fool is a pheasant!’ he said.  ’Just like some Romans.’

‘But you’re a Roman yourself, aren’t you?’ said Una.

’Ye-es and no.  I’m one of a good few thousands who have never seen Rome except in a picture.  My people have lived at Vectis for generations.  Vectis—­that island West yonder that you can see from so far in clear weather.’

’Do you mean the Isle of Wight?  It lifts up just before rain, and you see it from the Downs.’

’Very likely.  Our villa’s on the South edge of the Island, by the Broken Cliffs.  Most of it is three hundred years old, but the cow-stables, where our first ancestor lived, must be a hundred years older.  Oh, quite that, because the founder of our family had his land given him by Agricola at the Settlement.  It’s not a bad little place for its size.  In spring-time violets grow down to the very beach.  I’ve gathered sea-weeds for myself and violets for my Mother many a time with our old nurse.’