for them.  I remember one Goddess called Belisama.  She became a common wet water-spirit somewhere in Lancashire.  And there were hundreds of other friends of mine.  First they were Gods.  Then they were People of the Hills, and then they flitted to other places because they couldn’t get on with the English for one reason or another.  There was only one Old Thing, I remember, who honestly worked for his living after he came down in the world.  He was called Weland, and he was a smith to some Gods.  I’ve forgotten their names, but he used to make them swords and spears.  I think he claimed kin with Thor of the Scandinavians.’

‘Heroes of Asgard Thor?’ said Una.  She had been reading the book.

‘Perhaps,’ answered Puck.  ’None the less, when bad times came, he didn’t beg or steal.  He worked; and I was lucky enough to be able to do him a good turn.’

‘Tell us about it,’ said Dan.  ‘I think I like hearing of Old Things.’

They rearranged themselves comfortably, each chewing a grass stem.  Puck propped himself on one strong arm and went on: 

’Let’s think!  I met Weland first on a November afternoon in a sleet storm, on Pevensey Level——­’

‘Pevensey?  Over the hill, you mean?’ Dan pointed south.

’Yes; but it was all marsh in those days, right up to Horsebridge and Hydeneye.  I was on Beacon Hill—­they called it Brunanburgh then—­when I saw the pale flame that burning thatch makes, and I went down to look.  Some pirates—­I think they must have been Peofn’s men—­were burning a village on the Levels, and Weland’s image—­a big, black wooden thing with amber beads round his neck—­lay in the bows of a black thirty-two-oar galley that they had just beached.  Bitter cold it was!  There were icicles hanging from her deck and the oars were glazed over with ice, and there was ice on Weland’s lips.  When he saw me he began a long chant in his own tongue, telling me how he was going to rule England, and how I should smell the smoke of his altars from Lincolnshire to the Isle of Wight.  I didn’t care!  I’d seen too many Gods charging into Old England to be upset about it.  I let him sing himself out while his men were burning the village, and then I said (I don’t know what put it into my head), “Smith of the Gods,” I said, “the time comes when I shall meet you plying your trade for hire by the wayside."’

‘What did Weland say?’ said Una.  ‘Was he angry?’

’He called me names and rolled his eyes, and I went away to wake up the people inland.  But the pirates conquered the country, and for centuries Weland was a most important God.  He had temples everywhere—­from Lincolnshire to the Isle of Wight, as he said—­and his sacrifices were simply scandalous.  To do him justice, he preferred horses to men; but men or horses, I knew that presently he’d have to come down in the world—­like the other Old Things.  I gave him lots of time—­I gave him about a thousand years—­and at the end of ’em