’"I would like better a bath, wine, food, razors, soaps, oils, and scents,” said Pertinax, laughing.

’"Oh, I see you are a boy,” said Ambrosius.  “And you?” turning to me.

’"We bear no ill-will against Theodosius, but in War——­” I began.

’"In War it is as it is in Love,” said Pertinax.  “Whether she be good or bad, one gives one’s best once, to one only.  That given, there remains no second worth giving or taking.”

’"That is true,” said Ambrosius.  “I was with Maximus before he died.  He warned Theodosius that you would never serve him, and frankly I say I am sorry for my Emperor.”

’"He has Rome to console him,” said Pertinax.  “I ask you of your kindness to let us go to our homes and get this smell out of our nostrils.”

‘None the less they gave us a Triumph!’

‘It was well earned,’ said Puck, throwing some leaves into the still water of the marlpit.  The black, oily circles spread dizzily as the children watched them.

‘I want to know, oh, ever so many things,’ said Dan.  ’What happened to old Allo?  Did the Winged Hats ever come back?  And what did Amal do?’

‘And what happened to the fat old General with the five cooks?’ said Una.  ‘And what did your Mother say when you came home? ...’

‘She’d say you’re settin’ too long over this old pit, so late as ’tis already,’ said old Hobden’s voice behind them.  ‘Hst!’ he whispered.

He stood still, for not twenty paces away a magnificent dog-fox sat on his haunches and looked at the children as though he were an old friend of theirs.

‘Oh, Mus’ Reynolds, Mus’ Reynolds!’ said Hobden, under his breath.  ’If I knowed all was inside your head, I’d know something wuth knowin’.  Mus’ Dan an’ Miss Una, come along o’ me while I lock up my liddle hen-house.’

A PICT SONG

Rome never looks where she treads,
  Always her heavy hooves fall
On our stomachs, our hearts or our heads;
  And Rome never heeds when we bawl. 
Her sentries pass on—­that is all,
  And we gather behind them in hordes,
And plot to reconquer the Wall,
  With only our tongues for our swords.

We are the Little Folk—­we! 
  Too little to love or to hate. 
Leave us alone and you’ll see
  How we can drag down the Great! 
We are the worm in the wood! 
  We are the rot at the root! 
We are the germ in the blood! 
  We are the thorn in the foot!

Mistletoe killing an oak—­
  Rats gnawing cables in two—­
Moths making holes in a cloak—­
  How they must love what they do! 
Yes—­and we Little Folk too,
  We are as busy as they—­
Working our works out of view—­
Watch, and you’ll see it some day!

No indeed!  We are not strong,
  But we know Peoples that are. 
Yes, and we’ll guide them along,
  To smash and destroy you in War! 
We shall be slaves just the same? 
  Yes, we have always been slaves,
But you—­you will die of the shame,
  And then we shall dance on your graves!