it on a stone, tied the old horse to an oak, and called out:  “Smith, Smith, here is work for you!” Then he sat down and went to sleep.  You can imagine how I felt when I saw a white-bearded, bent old blacksmith in a leather apron creep out from behind the oak and begin to shoe the horse.  It was Weland himself.  I was so astonished that I jumped out and said:  “What on Human Earth are you doing here, Weland?"’

‘Poor Weland!’ sighed Una.

’He pushed the long hair back from his forehead (he didn’t recognize me at first).  Then he said:  “You ought to know.  You foretold it, Old Thing.  I’m shoeing horses for hire.  I’m not even Weland now,” he said.  “They call me Wayland-Smith."’

‘Poor chap!’ said Dan.  ‘What did you say?’

’What could I say?  He looked up, with the horse’s foot on his lap, and he said, smiling, “I remember the time when I wouldn’t have accepted this old bag of bones as a sacrifice, and now I’m glad enough to shoe him for a penny.”

’"Isn’t there any way for you to get back to Valhalla, or wherever you come from?” I said.

’"I’m afraid not,” he said, rasping away at the hoof.  He had a wonderful touch with horses.  The old beast was whinnying on his shoulder.  “You may remember that I was not a gentle God in my Day and my Time and my Power.  I shall never be released till some human being truly wishes me well.”

’"Surely,” said I, “the farmer can’t do less than that.  You’re shoeing the horse all round for him.”

’"Yes,” said he, “and my nails will hold a shoe from one full moon to the next.  But farmers and Weald clay,” said he, “are both uncommon cold and sour.”

’Would you believe it, that when that farmer woke and found his horse shod he rode away without one word of thanks?  I was so angry that I wheeled his horse right round and walked him back three miles to the Beacon, just to teach the old sinner politeness.’

‘Were you invisible?’ said Una.  Puck nodded, gravely.

’The Beacon was always laid in those days ready to light, in case the French landed at Pevensey; and I walked the horse about and about it that lee-long summer night.  The farmer thought he was bewitched—­well, he was, of course—­and began to pray and shout. I didn’t care!  I was as good a Christian as he any fair-day in the County, and about four o’clock in the morning a young novice came along from the monastery that used to stand on the top of Beacon Hill.’

‘What’s a novice?’ said Dan.

’It really means a man who is beginning to be a monk, but in those days people sent their sons to a monastery just the same as a school.  This young fellow had been to a monastery in France for a few months every year, and he was finishing his studies in the monastery close to his home here.  Hugh was his name, and he had got up to go fishing hereabouts.  His people owned all this valley.  Hugh heard the