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 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 lau