I went into one of his temples near Andover to see how he prospered.  There was his altar, and there was his image, and there were his priests, and there were the congregation, and everybody seemed quite happy, except Weland and the priests.  In the old days the congregation were unhappy until the priests had chosen their sacrifices; and so would you have been.  When the service began a priest rushed out, dragged a man up to the altar, pretended to hit him on the head with a little gilt axe, and the man fell down and pretended to die.  Then everybody shouted:  “A sacrifice to Weland!  A sacrifice to Weland!"’

‘And the man wasn’t really dead?’ said Una.

‘Not a bit.  All as much pretence as a dolls’ tea-party.  Then they brought out a splendid white horse, and the priest cut some hair from its mane and tail and burned it on the altar, shouting, “A sacrifice!” That counted the same as if a man and a horse had been killed.  I saw poor Weland’s face through the smoke, and I couldn’t help laughing.  He looked so disgusted and so hungry, and all he had to satisfy himself was a horrid smell of burning hair.  Just a dolls’ tea-party!

’I judged it better not to say anything then (’twouldn’t have been fair), and the next time I came to Andover, a few hundred years later, Weland and his temple were gone, and there was a Christian bishop in a church there.  None of the People of the Hills could tell me anything about him, and I supposed that he had left England.’  Puck turned; lay on the other elbow, and thought for a long time.

‘Let’s see,’ he said at last.  ’It must have been some few years later—­a year or two before the Conquest, I think—­that I came back to Pook’s Hill here, and one evening I heard old Hobden talking about Weland’s Ford.’

’If you mean old Hobden the hedger, he’s only seventy-two.  He told me so himself,’ said Dan.  ‘He’s a intimate friend of ours.’

‘You’re quite right,’ Puck replied.  ’I meant old Hobden’s ninth great-grandfather.  He was a free man and burned charcoal hereabouts.  I’ve known the family, father and son, so long that I get confused sometimes.  Hob of the Dene was my Hobden’s name, and he lived at the Forge cottage.  Of course, I pricked up my ears when I heard Weland mentioned, and I scuttled through the woods to the Ford just beyond Bog Wood yonder.’  He jerked his head westward, where the valley narrows between wooded hills and steep hop-fields.

‘Why, that’s Willingford Bridge,’ said Una.  ’We go there for walks often.  There’s a kingfisher there.’

’It was Weland’s Ford then, dear.  A road led down to it from the Beacon on the top of the hill—­a shocking bad road it was—­and all the hillside was thick, thick oak-forest, with deer in it.  There was no trace of Weland, but presently I saw a fat old farmer riding down from the Beacon under the greenwood tree.  His horse had cast a shoe in the clay, and when he came to the Ford he dismounted, took a penny out of his purse, laid