 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Icy Jumbo. Puck of Pooks Hill, by Rudyard Kipling. Section 1. Wheel and Sword. Puck's Song. See you, the dimpled track that runs all hollow through the wheat. Oh, that was where they hauled the guns that smote King Philip's fleet. See you, our little mill that clacks so busy by the brook? She has ground her corn and paid her tax ever since Doomsday Book. See you, our stilly woods of oak, and the dread ditch beside? Oh, that was where the Saxons broke on the day that Harold died. See you, the windy levels spread about the gates of Rye? Oh, that was where the Northmen fled when Alfred's ships came by. See you, our pastures wide and lone, where the red oxen brows? Oh, there was a city thronged and known ere London boasted a house. And see you, after rain, the trace of mound and ditch and wall? Oh, that was a legion's camping-place when Caesar sailed from Gaul. And see you, marks that show and fade, like shadows on the downs? Oh, they are the lines the flintmen made to guard their wondrous towns. Trackway and camp and city lost, salt marsh where now is corn, old wars, old peace, old arts that cease, and so was England born. She is not any common earth, water or wood or air, but a Merlin's Isle of Grammarie where you and I will fare. Wheel and Sword The children were at the theatre, acting to three cows as much as they could remember of Midsomer Knight's dream. Their father had made them a small play out of the big Shakespeare one, and they had rehearsed it with him and with their mother till they could say it by heart. They began where Nick Bottom, the weaver, comes out of the bushes with a donkey's head on his shoulder and finds Titania, queen of the fairies, asleep. Then they skipped to the part where Bottom asks three little fairies to scratch his head and bring him honey, and they ended where he falls asleep in Titania's arms. Dan was Puck and Nick Bottom as well as all three fairies. He wore a pointy-eared cloth cap for Puck and a paper donkey's head out of a Christmas cracker, but it tore if you were not careful, for Bottom. Euna was Titania, with a wreath of Columbines and a fox-glove wand. The theatre lay in a meadow called the Long Slip. A little mill-stream, carrying water to a mill two or three fields away, bent round one corner of it, and in the middle of the bend lay a large old fairy-ring of darkened grass, which was their stage. The mill-stream banks, overgrown with willow, hazel, and gelder rose, made convenient places to wait in till your turn came, and a grown-up who had seen it said that Shakespeare himself could not have imagined a more suitable setting for his play. They were not, of course, allowed to act on Midsummer Night itself, but they went down after tea on Midsummer Eve, when the shadows were growing, and they took their supper, hard-boiled eggs, bath all over biscuits and salt in an envelope, with them. Three cows had been milked, and were grazing steadily with a tearing noise that one could hear all down the meadow, and the noise of the mill at work sounded like bare feet running on hard ground. A cuckoo sat on a gate-post singing his broken dune tune, cuckoo, cuckoo, while a busy kingfisher crossed from the mill-stream to the brook which ran on the other side of the meadow. Anything else was a sort of thick, sleepy stillness, smelling of meadow-sweet and dry grass. Their play went beautifully. Dan remembered all his parts, puck, bottom, and the three fairies, and Euna never forgot a word of Titania, not even the difficult piece where she tells the fairies how to feed bottom with apricox, ripe figs, and tuberies, and all the lines end in ease. They were so pleased that they acted it three times over from beginning to end before they sat down in the unthistly centre of the ring to eat eggs and bath-olivers. This was when they heard a whistle among the elders on the bank, and they jumped. The bushes parted. In the very spot where Dan had stood as puck, they saw a small, brown, broad-shouldered, pointy-eared person with a snub nose, slanting blue eyes, and a grin that ran right across his freckled face. He shaded his forehead as though he were watching quints, snout, bottom, and the others rehearsing Pyramus and Thisby, and, in a voice as deep as three cows asking to be milked, he began. What hempen homespuns have we swaggering here so near the cradle of our fairy queen? He stopped, hollowed one hand round his ear, and with a wicked twinkle in his eye went on. What a play towards, I'll be auditor, an actor too, perhaps, if I see cause. The children looked and gasped. The small thing, he was no taller than Dan's shoulder, stepped quietly into the ring. I'm rather out of practice, said he, but that's the way my part ought to be played. Still the children stared at him, from his dark blue cap like a big columbine flower to his bare hairy feet. At last he laughed. Please don't look like that. It isn't my fault. What else could you expect? he said. We didn't expect any one, Dan answered slowly. This is our field. Is it? said their visitor, sitting down. Then what on human earth made you act Midsummer Night's Dream three times over, on Midsummer Eve, in the middle of a ring, and under, right under one of my oldest hills in Old England. Pooks Hill. Puck's Hill. Puck's Hill. Pooks Hill. It's as plain as the nose on my face. He pointed to the bare, fern-covered slope of Pooks Hill that runs up from the far side of the mill-stream to a dark wood. Beyond that wood the ground rises and rises for five hundred feet till at last you climb out on the bare top of Beacon Hill to look over the pevonsy levels and the channel and half the naked south-downs. By oak ash and thorn, he cried, still laughing, if this had happened a few hundred years ago you'd have had all the people of the hills out like bees in June. We didn't know it was wrong, said Dan. Wrong? the little fellow shook with laughter. Indeed it isn't wrong. You've done something that kings and knights and scholars in the old days would have given their crowns and spurs and books to find out. If Merlin himself had helped you you couldn't have managed better. You've broken the hills. You've broken the hills. It hasn't happened in a thousand years. We—we didn't mean to, said Euna. Of course you didn't. That's just why you did it. Unluckily the hills are empty now and all the people of the hills are gone. I'm the only one left. I'm Puck, the oldest old thing in England, very much at your service, if—if you care to have anything to do with me. If you don't, of course, you've only to say so and I'll go. He looked at the children and the children looked at him for quite half a minute. His eyes did not twinkle any more. They were very kind and there was the beginning of a good smile on his lips. Euna put out her hand. Don't go! she said. We like you! Have a bath, Oliver! said Dan, and he passed over the squashy envelope with the eggs. By oak, ash and thorn cried Puck, taking off his blue cap. I like you, too. Sprinkle a little salt on the biscuit, Dan, and I'll eat it with you. That'll show you the sort of person I am. Some of us, he went on with his mouthful, couldn't abide salt or horse shoes over a door, or mountain ash berries, or running water, or cold iron, or the sound of church bells, but I'm Puck. He brushed the crumbs carefully from his doublet and shook hands. We always said, Dan and I, Euna stammered, that if it ever happened we'd know exactly what to do, but now it all seems different somehow. She means meeting a fairy, said Dan. I never believed in them, not after I was six anyhow. I did, said Euna. At least I sort of half-believed till we learned farewell rewards. Do you know farewell rewards and fairies? Do you mean this? said Puck. He threw his big head back and began at the second line. Good housewives now may say, for now foul sluts and dairies do fair as well as they, for though they sweep their hearths no less, join in, Euna, than maids were wont to do, yet who of late for cleanliness finds sixpence in her shoe? The echoes flapped all along the flat meadow. Of course I know it, he said. But then there's the verse about the rings, said Dan. When I was little it always made me feel unhappy in my inside. Witness those rings and roundelays, do you mean? boomed Puck, with a voice like a great church organ. Of theirs which yet remain were footed in Queen Mary's days on many a grassy plain. But since of late Elizabeth and later James came in, are never seen on any heath as when the time hath been. It's some time since I heard that sung, but it's no good beating about the bush, it's true. The people of the hills have all left. I saw them come into old England, and I saw them go. Giants, trolls, kelpies, brownies, goblins, imps, wood, tree, mound and water spirits, heath people, hill-watchers, treasure-guards, good people, little people, pishogs, leprechauns, night-writers, pixies, nixies, gnomes and the rest, gone, all gone. I came into England with oak ash and thorn, and when oak ash and thorn are gone I shall go too. Dan looked round the meadow, at Euner's oak by the lower gate, at the line of ash trees that overhang Otterpool where the mill-stream spills over when the mill does not need it, and at the gnarled old white-thorn where three cows scratched their necks. It's all right, he said, and added, I'm planting a lot of acorns this autumn too. Then aren't you most awfully old? said Euner. Not old. Fairly long lived, as folks say hereabouts. Let me see. My friends used to set my dish of cream for me a night's when Stonehenge was new. Yes, before the flintmen made the dupe on Dunder-Chunctonbury ring. Euner clasped her hands, cried, Oh! and nodded her head. She's thought a plan, Dan explained. She always does like that when she thinks a plan. I was thinking, suppose we saved some of our porridge and put it in the attic for you. They'd notice if we left it in the nursery. Schoolroom, said Dan quickly, and Euner flushed, because they had made a solemn treaty that summer not to call the schoolroom the nursery any more. Bless your heart a gold, said Puck. You'll make a fine considering wench some market day. I really don't want you to put out a bowl for me, but if I ever need a bite, be sure I'll tell you." He stretched himself at length on the dry grass, and the children stretched out beside him, their bare legs waving happily in the air. They felt they could not be afraid of him any more than of their particular friend, Old Hobdon, the hedger. He did not bother them with grown-up questions, or laugh at the donkey's head, but lay and smiled to himself in the most sensible way. Have you a knife on you? he said at last. Dan handed over his big one-bladed outdoor knife, and Puck began to carve out a piece of turf from the centre of the ring. What's that for? Magic? said Euner, as he pressed up the square of chocolate loam that cut like so much cheese. One of my little magics, he answered, and cut another. You see, I can't let you into the hills because the people of the hills have gone, but if you care to take season from me I may be able to show you something out of the common here on human earth. You certainly deserve it. What's taking season? said Dan cautiously. It's an old custom the people had when they bought and sold land. They used to cut out a clod and hand it over to the buyer, and you weren't lawfully seized of your land. It didn't really belong to you, till the other fellow had actually given you a piece of it, like this. He held out the turfs. But it's our own meadow, said Dan, drawing back. Are you going to magic it away? Puck laughed. I know it's your meadow, but there's a great deal more in it than you or your father ever guessed. Try. He turned his eyes on Euner. I'll do it, she said. Dan followed her example at once. Now are you two lawfully seized and possessed of all old England, began Puck in a sing-song voice. By right of oak, ash and thorn are you free to come and go, and look and know where I shall show or best you please. You shall see what you shall see, and you shall hear what you shall hear, though it shall have happened three thousand year, and you shall know neither doubt nor fear. Fast, hold fast all I give you. The children shut their eyes, but nothing happened. Well, said Euner, disappointedly opening them, I thought there would be dragons. Though it shall have happened three thousand year, said Puck, and counted on his fingers. No, I'm afraid there were no dragons three thousand years ago. But there hasn't happened anything at all, said Dan. Wait a while, said Puck. You don't grow an oak in a year, and old England's older than twenty oaks, let's sit down again and think. I can do that for a century at a time. Ah, but you're a fairy, said Dan. Have you ever heard me use that word yet, said Puck quickly? No, you talk about the people of the hills, but you never say fairies, said Euner. I was wondering at that, don't you like it? How would you like to be called mortal or human being all the time, said Puck, or son of Adam, or daughter of Eve? I shouldn't like it at all, said Dan. That's how the jins and affreets talk in the Arabian nights. And that's how I feel about saying that word I don't say. Besides, what you call them are made up things the people of the hills have never heard of, little buzzflies with butterfly wings and gauze petticoats and shiny stars in their hair, and a wand like a schoolteacher's cane for punishing bad boys and rewarding good ones. I know them. We don't mean that sort, said Dan. We hate them, too. Exactly, said Puck, can you wonder that the people of the hills don't care to be confused with that painty winged, wand-waving, sugar-and-shake-your-head set of impostors? Butterfly wings, indeed. I've seen Sir Hewan and a troop of his people setting off from Tintagel Castle for High Brazil in the teeth of a south-westerly gale, with the spray flying all over the castle and the horses of the hill wild with fright. Out they'd go in a lull, screaming like gulls, and back they'd be driven five good miles inland before they could come head to wind again. Butterfly wings. It was magic, magic as black as Merlin could make it, and the whole sea was green fire and white foam with singing mermaids in it, and the horses of the hill picked their way from one wave to another by the lightning flashes. That was how it was in the old days. Splendid, said Dan. But Yuna shuddered. I'm glad they're gone, then. But what made the people of the hills go away? Yuna asked. Different things. I'll tell you one of them some day. The thing that made the biggest flit of any, said Puck. But they didn't all flit at once. They dropped off one by one through the centuries. Most of them were foreigners who couldn't stand our climate. They flitted early. How early, said Dan. A couple of thousand years or more. The fact is, they began as gods. The Phoenicians brought some over when they came to buy tin, and the gulls and the jutes and the Danes and the Frisians and the Angles brought more when they landed. They were always landing in those days, or being driven back to their ships, and they always brought their gods with them. England is a bad country for gods. Now I began, as I mean to go on. A bowl of porridge, a dish of milk, and a little quiet fun with the country folk in the lanes was enough for me, then, as it is now. I belong here, you see, and I have been mixed up with people all my days. But most of the others insisted on being gods, and having temples and altars and priests and sacrifices of their own. People burned in wicker baskets, said Dan, like Miss Blake tells us about. All sorts of sacrifices, said Puck. If it wasn't men, it was horses, or cattle, or pigs, or meth-eglin. That's a sticky sweet sort of beer. I never liked it. They were a stiff-necked, extravagant set of idols, the old things. But what was the result? Men don't like being sacrificed at the best of times. They don't even like sacrificing their farm-horses. After a while, men simply left the old things alone, and the roofs of their temples fell in, and the old things had to scuttle out and pick up a living as they could. Some of them took to hanging about trees, and hiding in graves, and groaning a-nights. If they groaned loud enough and long enough, they might frighten a poor countryman into sacrificing a hen, or leaving a pound of butter for them. I remember one goddess called Bellisama. 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 Wheeland, 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 Euna, she had been reading the book. Perhaps, answered Puck. Nonetheless, 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 Wheeland 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 in Hyden Eye. I was on Beacon Hill. They called it Brunnenborough 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 Pjofen's men, were burning a village on the levels, and Wheeland's image, a big black wooden thing with amber beads round its neck, lay in the boughs of a black thirty-two ore 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 Wheeland'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 Wheeland 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 Wheeland 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 him 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 Wheeland 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 guilt-axe, and the man fell down and pretended to die. Then everybody shouted, A sacrifice to Wheeland! A sacrifice to Wheeland! And the man wasn't really dead, said Euna. Not a bit, all as much pretence as a doll's 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 Wheeland'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 doll's tea-party. I judged it better not to say anything then, it wouldn't have been fair, and the next time I came to Andover a few hundred years later Wheeland 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 Pooks Hill here, and one evening I heard old Hobdon talking about Wheeland's Ford. If you mean old Hobdon the Hedger, he's only seventy-two. He told me so himself, said Dan. He's an intimate friend of ours. You're quite right, Puck replied. I meant old Hobdon'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. Hobb of the Dean was my Hobdon's name, and he lived at the Forge Cottage. Of course I pricked up my ears when I heard Wheeland mentioned, and I scuttled through the woods to the Ford just beyond Bogwood yonder. He jerked his head westward, where the valley narrows between wooded hills and steep hop-fields. Why, that's Willingford Bridge, said Euna. We go there for walks often. There's a Kingfisher there. It was Wheeland's Ford then, dear. A road led down to it from the beacon on 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 Wheeland, 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 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 Wheeland himself. I was so astonished that I jumped out and said, What on human earth are you doing here, Wheeland? Poor Wheeland, sighed Euna. He pushed the long hair back from his forehead. He didn't recognise me at first. Then he said, You ought to know. You foretold it, old thing. I'm showing horses for hire. I'm not even Wheeland now, he said. They call me Wheeland 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 would 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, rafting 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 wheeled 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 Yuna. 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 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 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 here abouts. His people owned all this valley. Hugh heard the farmer shouting, and asked him what in the world he meant. The old man spun him a wonderful tale about fairies and goblins and witches, and I know he hadn't seen a thing except rabbits and red deer all that night. The people of the hills are like otters. They don't show except when they choose. But the novice wasn't a fool. He looked down at the horse's feet and saw the new shoes fastened as only Weeland knew how to fasten them. Weeland had a way of turning down the nails that folks called the smith's clinch. Hmm! said the novice. Where did you get your horse shot? The farmer wouldn't tell him at first, because the priests never liked their people to have any dealings with the old things. At last he confessed that the smith had done it. What did you pay him? said the novice. Penny, said the farmer, very sulkily. That's less than a Christian would have charged, said the novice. I hope you threw a thank you into the bargain. No, said the farmer. Weeland smith the heathen. Heathen or no heathen, said the novice. You took his help, and where you get help, there you must give thanks. What? said the farmer. He was in a furious temper, because I was walking the old horse in circles all this time. What, you young jackenapes? said he. Then, by your reasoning, I ought to say thank you to Satan if he helped me. Don't roll up there, splitting reasons with me, said the novice. Come back to the ford, and thank the smith, or you'll be sorry. Back the farmer had to go. I led the horse, though no one saw me, and the novice walked beside his, his gown swishing through the shiny dew and his fishing rod across his shoulders spearwise. When we reached the ford again, it was five o'clock and misty still under the oaks. The farmer simply wouldn't say thank you. He said he'd tell the abbot that the novice wanted him to worship heathen gods. Then Hugh the novice lost his temper. He just cried, out! Put his arm under the farmer's fat leg, and heaved him from his saddle onto the turf, and before he could rise he caught him by the back of the neck, and shook him like a rat till the farmer growled. Thank you, Weyland Smith. Did Weyland see all this? said Dan. Oh yes, and he shouted his old war cry when the farmer thudded onto the ground. He was delighted. Then the novice turned to the oak and said, Ho, smith of the gods, I am ashamed of this rude farmer, but for all you have done in kindness and charity to him, and others of our people, I thank you and wish you well. Then he picked up his fishing rod. It looked more like a tall spear than ever, and tramped off down your valley. And what did War Weyland do? said Euna. He laughed and cried with joy, because he had been released at last and could go away. But he was an honest old thing. He had worked for his living, and he paid his debts before he left. I shall give that novice a gift, said Weyland, a gift that shall do him good the wide world over, and old England after him. Blow up my fire, old thing, while I get the iron for my last task. Then he made a sword, a dark gray, wavy lined sword, and I blew the fire while he hammered. By oak, ash and thorn, I tell you, Weyland was a smith of the gods. He cooled that sword in running water twice, and the third time he cooled it in the evening dew, and he laid it out in the moonlight, and said runes, that's charms over it, and he carved runes of prophecy on the blade. Old thing, he said to me, wiping his forehead, this is the best blade that Weyland ever made. Even the user will never know how good it is. Come to the monastery. We went to the dormitory where the monks slept. We saw the novice fast asleep in his cot, and Weyland put the sword into his hand, and I remember the young fellow gripped it in his sleep. Then Weyland strode as far as he dared into the chapel, and threw down all his shoeing-tools, his hammer and pincers and rafts, to show that he had done with them for ever. It sounded like suits of armor falling, and the sleepy monks ran in, for they thought the monastery had been attacked by the French. The novice came first of all waving his new sword and shouting Saxon battle-crise. When they saw the shoeing-tools, they were very bewildered, till the novice asked Leave to speak, and told what he had done to the farmer, and what he had said to Weyland Smith, and how, though the dormitory light was burning, he had found the wonderful rune-carved sword in his cot. The abbot shook his head at first, and then he laughed and said to the novice, Son Hugh, it needed no sign from a heathen god to show me that you will never be a monk. Take your sword and keep your sword, and go with your sword, and be as gentle as you are strong and courteous. We will hang up the Smith's tools before the altar," he said, because whatever the Smith of the gods may have been in the old days, we know that he worked honestly for his living, and made gifts to Mother Church. Then they went to bed again, all except the novice, and he set up in the garth playing with his sword. Then Weyland said to me by the stables, Farewell, old thing, you had the right of it, you saw me come to England, and you see me go. Farewell. With that he strode down the hill to the corner of the great woods, woods corner, you call it now, to the very place where he had first landed, and I heard him moving through the thickets towards Horsebridge for a little, and then he was gone. That's how it happened. I saw it. Both children drew a long breath. But what happened to Hugh the novice, said Euna, and the sword, said Dan. Puck looked down the meadow that lay all quiet and cool in the shadow of Pooks Hill. A corn-crate jarred in a hay-field nearby, and the small trouts of the brook began to jump. A big white moth flew unsteadily from the olders, and flat round the children's heads, and the least little haze of water-mist rose from the brook. Do you really want to know? Puck said. We do, cried the children, awfully. Very good. I promised you that you shall see what you shall see, and you shall hear what you shall hear, though it shall have happened three thousand years. But just now it seems to me that unless you go back to the house, people will be looking for you. I'll walk with you as far as the gate. Will you be here when we come again? they asked. Surely, surely, said Puck. I've been here some time already. One minute first, please. He gave them each three leaves, one of oak, one of ash, and one of thorn. Bite these, said he. Otherwise you might be talking at home of what you've seen and heard, and, if I know human beings, they'd send for the doctor. Bite! They bit hard, and found themselves walking side by side to the lower gate. Their father was leaning over it. And how did your play go? he asked. Oh, splendidly, said Dan. Only afterwards, I think, we went to sleep. It was very hot and quiet. Don't you remember, Yuna? Yuna shook her head and said nothing. I see, said her father. Late, late in the evening, Kilmenny came home, for Kilmenny had been she could not tell where, and Kilmenny had seen what she could not declare. But why are you chewing leaves at your time of life, daughter, for fun? No, it was for something, but I can't exactly remember, said Yuna, and neither of them could tell. End of Section 1, Wheelan's Sword Section 2, Young Men at the Manor, from Puck of Pooks Hill. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Icy Jumbo. Puck of Pooks Hill, by Rudyard Kipling. Section 2, Young Men at the Manor. A Tree Song Of all the trees that grow so fair, old England to adorn, greater are none beneath the sun, than oak and ash and thorn. Sing oak and ash and thorn, good sirs, all of a midsummer morning. Surely we sing no little thing in oak and ash and thorn. Oak of the clay lived many a day, or ever in ears began. Ash of the Lome was a lady at home, when brute was an outlaw man. Thorn of the Down saw New Troy Town, from which was London born. Witness hereby the ancientry of oak and ash and thorn. You that is old in churchyard mould, he breedeth a mighty bow. Older for shoes do wise men choose, and beech for cups also. But when ye have killed, and your bowl is spilled, and your shoes are clean out worn, back ye must speed for all that ye need, to oak and ash and thorn. Elam she hateth mankind, and waiteth till every gust be laid, to drop a limb on the head of him that any way trusts her shade. But whether a lad be sober or sad, or mellow with ale from the horn, he will take no wrong when he lieth along neath oak and ash and thorn. O do not tell the priest how plight, or he would call it a sin. But we have been out in the woods all night, a conjuring summer in. And we bring you news by word of mouth, good news for cattle and corn. Now is the sun come up from the south, with oak and ash and thorn. Sing oak and ash and thorn, good sirs, all of a midsummer morn. England shall bide till judgment tide, by oak and ash and thorn. They were fishing a few days later in the bed of the brook that for centuries had cut deep into the soft valley soil. The trees closing overhead made long tunnels through which the sunshine worked in blobs and patches. Down in the tunnels were bars of sand and gravel, old roots and trunks covered with moss or painted red by the irony water, fox-clubs growing lean and pale towards the light, clumps of fern and thirsty shy flowers who could not live away from moisture and shade. In the pools you could see the wave thrown up by the trouts as they charged hither and yon, and the pools were joined to each other, except in flood-time when all was one brown rush, by sheets of thin, broken water that poured themselves chuckling round the darkness of the next bend. This was one of the children's most secret hunting grounds, and their particular friend, old Hobdon the Hedger, had shown them how to use it. Except for the click of a rod hitting a low willow, or a switch and tussle among the young ash leaves as a line hung up for them in it, nobody in the hot pasture could have guessed what game was going on among the trouts below the banks. We've got half a dozen, said Dan, after a warm wet hour. I vote we go up to Stone Bay and try long pool. Yuna nodded. Most of her talk was by nods, and they crept from the gloom of the tunnels towards the tiny weir that turns the brook into the mill-stream. Here the banks are low and bare, and the glare of the afternoon sun on the long pool below the weir makes your eyes ache. When they were in the open they nearly fell down with astonishment. A huge grey horse, whose tail-hares crinkled the glassy water, was drinking in the pool, and the ripples about his muzzle flashed like melted gold. On his back sat an old white-haired man dressed in a loose, glimmery gown of chain-mail. He was bare-headed, and a nut-shaped iron helmet hung at his saddle-bow. His reins were of red leather, five or six inches deep, scalloped at the edges, and his high-padded saddle with its red girths was held four-and-aft by a red leather breastband and cropper. Look, said Yuna, as though Dan were not staring his very eyes out, it's like the picture in your room, Sir Ismbress at the Ford. The rider turned towards them, and his thin long face was just as sweet and gentle as that of the knight who carries the children in that picture. They should be here now, Sir Richard, said Puck's deep voice among the willow herb. They are here, the knight said, and he smiled at Dan with the string of trouts in his hand. There seems no great change in boys since mine fished this water. If your horse is drunk, we shall be more at ease in the ring, said Puck, and he nodded to the children as though he had never magicked away their memories the week before. The great horse turned and hoisted himself into the pasture with a kick and a scramble that tore the clods down, rattling. Your pardon, said Sir Richard to Dan. When these lands were mine, I never loved that mounted men should cross the brook except by the paved Ford, but my swallow here was thirsty and I wished to meet you. We're very glad you've come, Sir, said Dan. It doesn't matter in the least about the banks. He trotted across the pasture on the sword side of the mighty horse, and it was a mighty iron-handled sword that swung from Sir Richard's belt. Euna walked behind with Puck. She remembered everything now. I'm sorry about the leaves, he said, but it would never have done if you had gone home and told, would it? By suppose not, Euna answered, but you said that all the people of the hills had left England. So they have, but I told you that you should come and go and look and know, didn't I? The night isn't a fairy. He's Sir Richard Dalingridge, a very old friend of mine. He came over with William the Conqueror, and he wants to see you particularly. What for? said Euna. On account of your great wisdom and learning, Puck replied, without a twinkle. Us, said Euna, why? I don't even know my nine times, not to say it dodging, and Dan makes the most awful mess of fractions. He can't mean us. Euna, Dan called back. Sir Richard said he is going to tell us what happened to Wheeland's sword. He's got it. Isn't it splendid? Nay, nay, said Sir Richard, dismounting as they reached the ring in the bend of the millstream bank. It is you that must tell me, for I hear the youngest child in our England today is as wise as our wisest clerk. He slipped the bit out of Swallow's mouth, dropped the ruby red reins over his head, and the wise horse moved off to Grey's. Sir Richard, they noticed he limped a little, unslung his great sword. That's it, Dan whispered to Euna. This is the sword that Brother Hugh had from Wheeland Smith, Sir Richard said. Once he gave it to me, but I would not take it. But at the last it became mine after such a fight as never christened men fought. See? He half drew it from its sheath, and turned it before them. On either side, just below the handle, where the runic letters shivered as though they were alive, were two deep gouges in the dull, deadly steel. Now, what thing made those, he said he, I know not, but you perhaps can say. Tell them all the tale, Sir Richard, said Puck. It concerns their land somewhat. Yes, from the very beginning, Euna pleaded, for the night's good face and the smile on it, more than ever reminded her of Sir Ismbress at the Ford. They settled down to listen. Sir Richard bareheaded to the sunshine, dandling the sword in both hands, while the grey horse cropped outside the ring, and the helmet on the saddle-bow clinged softly each time he jerked his head. From the beginning, then, Sir Richard said, since it concerns your land, I will tell the tale. When our Duke came out of Normandy to take his England, great knights, have you heard, came and strove hard to serve the Duke, because he promised them lands here, and small knights followed the great ones. My folk in Normandy were poor, but a great knight, Engerard of the Eagle, Engenolf de Aquila, who was kin to my father, followed the Earl of Mortain, who followed William the Duke, and I followed de Aquila. Yes, with thirty-minute arms out of my father's house and a new sword, I set out to conquer England three days after I was made knight. I did not then know that England would conquer me. We went up to Sardlash with the rest, a very great host of us. Does that mean the battle of Hastings ten sixty-six? Euna whispered, and Puck nodded so as not to interrupt. At Sardlash over the hill yonder, he pointed southeastwards towards Fairlight, we found Harold's men. We fought. At the day's end they ran. My men went with de Aquila to chase and plunder, and in that chase Engerard of the Eagle was slain, and his son Gilbert took his banner and his men forward. This I did not know till after, for Swallow here was cut in the flank, so I stayed to wash the wound at a brook by a thorn. There a single Saxon cried out to me in French, and we fought together. I should have known his voice, but we fought together. For a long time neither had any advantage till by pure ill fortune his foot slipped, and his sword flew from his hand. Now I had but newly been made night, and wished above all to be courteous and fame-worthy, so I forbore to strike, and bad him get his sword again. A plague on my sword, said he. It has lost me my first fight. You have spared my life, take my sword. He held it out to me, but as I stretched my hand the sword groaned like a stricken man, and I leapt back crying, Sorcery! The children looked at the sword as though it might speak again. Suddenly a clump of Saxons ran out upon me, and seeing a Norman alone would have killed me, but my Saxon cried out that I was his prisoner, and beat them off. Thus, you see, he saved my life. He put me on my horse, and led me through the woods ten long miles to this valley. To he, ad you mean? said Euna. To this very valley. We came in by the lower ford under the King's Hill yonder. He pointed eastward, where the valley widens. And was that Saxon Hugh the novice? Dan asked. Yes, and more than that. He had been for three years at the monastery at Beck by Rouen, where, Sir Richard chuckled, the abbot Erlois would not suffer me to remain. Why wouldn't he? said Dan. Because I rode my horse into the refectory when the scholars were at meat, to show the Saxon boys we Normans were not afraid of an abbot. It was that very Saxon Hugh tempted me to do it, and we had not met since that day. I thought I knew his voice even inside my helmet, and for all that our lords fought, we each rejoiced we had not slain the other. He walked by my side, and he told me how a heathen god, as he believed, had given him his sword, but he said he had never heard it sing before. I remember I warned him to beware of sorcery and quick enchantments. Sir Richard smiled to himself. I was very young—very young. When we came to his house here, we had almost forgotten that we had been at blows. It was near midnight, and the great hall was full of men and women waiting news. There I first saw his sister, the Lady Islauva, of whom he had spoken to us in France. She cried out fiercely at me, and would have had me hanged in that hour, but her brother said that I had spared his life. He said not how he had saved mine from his Saxons, and that our Duke had won the day, and even while they wrangled over my poor body, of a sudden he fell down in a swoon from his wounds. This is thy fault, said the Lady Islauva to me, and she kneeled above him and called for wine and cloths. If I had known, I answered, he should have ridden an eye walked, but he set me on my horse. He made no complaint. He walked beside me and spoke merrily throughout. I pray I have done him no harm. Thou hast need to pray, she said, catching up her underlip. If he dies, thou shalt hang. They bore off Hugh to his chamber, but three tall men of the house bound me and set me under the beam of the great hall with a rope round my neck. The end of the rope they flung over the beam, and they sat them down by the fire to wait word whether Hugh lived or died. They cracked nuts with their knife-hills the while. And how did you feel, said Dan? Very weary, but I did heartily pray for my schoolmaid Hugh his health. About noon I heard horses in the valley, and the three men loosed my ropes and fled out, and dear Quillar's men rode up. Gilbert, dear Quillar, came with them, for it was his boast that, like his father, he forgot no man that served him. He was little, like his father, but terrible, with a nose like an eagle's nose, and yellow eyes like an eagle. He rode tall war-horses, rones which he bred himself, and he could never abide to be helped into the saddle. He saw the rope hanging from the beam and laughed, and his men laughed, for I was too stiff to rise. This is a poor entertainment for a Norman knight, he said, but such as it is, let us be grateful. Show me, boy, to whom thou o'est most, and we will pay them out of hand. What did he mean, to kill him? said Dan. Assuredly, but I looked at the Lady Islaueva where she stood among her maids, and her brother beside her. Dear Quillar's men had driven them all into the great hall. Was she pretty? said Euna. In all my life I have never seen woman fit to strew rushes before my Lady Islaueva, the knight replied, quite simply and quietly. As I looked at her, I thought I might save her and her house by a jest. Seeing that I came somewhat hastily and without warning, said I to Dear Quillar, I have no fault defined with the courtesy that these Saxons have shown me. But my voice shook, it is. It was not good to jest with that little man. All were silent a while, till Dear Quillar laughed. Look, men, a miracle, said he. The fight is scarce, bed. My father is not yet buried, and here we find our youngest knight already set down in his manor, while his Saxons, ye can see it in their fat faces, have paid him homage and service. By the saints, he said, rubbing his nose. I never thought England would be so easy one. Surely I can do no less than give the lad what he has taken. This manor shall be thine, boy, he said, till I come again, or till thou art slain. Now, mount men and ride, we follow our Duke into Kent to make him King of England. He drew me with him to the door, while they brought his horse, a lean roan, taller than my swallow here, but not so well girthed. Hark to me, he said, fretting with his great war-gloves. I have given thee this manor, which is a Saxon hornet's nest, and I think thou wilt be slain in a month, as my father was slain. Yet if thou canst keep the roof on the hall, the thatch on the barn, and the plough in the furrow till I shall come back, thou shalt hold the manor from me. For the Duke has promised our Earl Mortain all the lands by Pevensey, and Mortain will give me of them what he would have given my father. God knows if thou or I shall live till England is one. But remember, boy, that here and now fighting his foolishness and, he reached for the reins, craft and cunning is all. Alas, I have no cunning, said I. Not yet, said he, hopping abroad, foot in syrup, and poking his horse in the belly with his toe. Not yet, but I think thou hast a good teacher. Farewell, hold the manor and live, lose the manor and hang, he said, and spurred out, his shield strapped squeaking behind him. So, children, here was I, little more than a boy, and sunlash fight not two days old, left alone with my thirty men at arms, in a land I knew not, among a people whose tongue I could not speak, to hold down the land which I had taken from them. And was that here at home? said Euna. Yes, here. See, from the upper ford, Wieland's ford, to the lower ford, by the Bel-Alay, west and east it ran half a league. From the beacon of Brunnenbrough behind us here, south and north it ran a full league, and all the woods were full of broken men from sunlash, Saxon thieves, Norman plunderers, robbers and deer-stealers, a hornet's nest indeed. When near Quiller had gone, Hugh would have thanked me for saving their lives, but Lady Eilueva said that I had done it only for the sake of receiving the manor. How could I know that dear Quiller would give it me? I said. If I had told him I had spent my night in your halter, he would have burned the place twice over by now. If any man had put my neck in a rope, she said, I would have seen his house burned thrice over before I would have made terms. But it was a woman, I said, and I laughed, and she wept, and said that I mocked her in her captivity. Lady, said I, there is no captive in this valley except one, and he is not a Saxon. At this she cried that I was a Norman thief who came with false sweet words, having intended from the first to turn her out into the fields to beg her bread. Into the fields she had never seen the face of war. I was angry and answered, this much at least I can disprove, for I swear, and on my sword-hilt I swore it in that place, I swear I will never set foot in the great hall till the Lady Eilueva herself shall summon me there. She went away, saying nothing, and I walked out, and Hugh limped after me, whistling dollarously. That is a custom of the English, and we came upon the three Saxons that had bound me. They were now bound by my men at arms, and behind them stood some fifty stark and sullen churls of the house and the manor, waiting to see what should fall. We heard dear Quillars trumpets blow thin through the woods, Kentwood. Shall we hang these? said my men. Then my churls will fight, said Sir Hugh, beneath his breath, but I banned him, asked the three what mercy they hoped for. None, said they all. She bade us hang thee if our master died, and we would have hanged thee, there is no more to it. As I stood doubting, a woman ran down from the oak wood above the king's hill yonder, and cried out that some Normans were driving off the swine there. Norman or Saxon, said I, we must beat them back, or they will rob us every day, out at them with any arms ye have. So I loosed those three Carls, and we ran together, my men at arms, and the Saxons with bills and bows which they had hidden in the thatch of their huts, and Hugh led them. Halfway up the king's hill we found a false fellow from Biggody, a subtler that sold wine in the Duke's camp, with a dead knight's shield on his arm, a stolen horse under him, and some ten or twelve wastrels at his tail, all cutting and slashing at the pigs. We beat them off, and saved our pork. One hundred and seventy pigs we saved in that great battle. Sir Richard laughed. That, then, was our first work together, and I bad Hugh tell his folk that so would I deal with any man, knight or churl, Norman or Saxon, who stole as much as one egg from our valley. Said he to me, riding home, Thou hast gone far to conquer England this evening. I answered, England must be thine and mine, then. Help me, Hugh, to deal a right with this people. Make them to know that if they slay me, Dear Quilla will surely send to slay them, and he will put a worse man in my place. That may well be true, said he, and gave me his hand. Better the devil we know than the devil we know not, till we can pack you, Norman's, home. And so, too, said his Saxons, and they laughed as we drove the pigs downhill. But I think some of them, even then, began not to hate me. I like brother Hugh, said Euna, softly. Beyond question he was the most perfect, courteous, valiant, tender and wise knight that ever drew breath, said Richard, caressing the sword. He hung up his sword, this sword, on the wall of the Great Hall, because he said it was fairly mine, and he never took it down till Dear Quilla returned, as I shall presently show. For three months his men and mine guarded the valley, till all Roberts and Nightwalkers learned there was nothing to get from us save hard tack and a hanging. Side by side we fought against all who came, thrice a week sometimes we fought, against thieves and landless knights looking for good manners. Then we were in some peace, and I made shift by Hugh's help to govern the valley. For all this valley of yours was my manner, as a knight should. I kept the roof on the hall, and the thatch on the barn, but— The English are a bold people. His Saxons would laugh and jest with Hugh, and Hugh with them. This was marvellous to me. If even the meanest of them said that such and such a thing was a custom of the manner, then straightway would Hugh and such old men of the manner as might be near forsake everything else to debate the matter. I have seen them stop the mill with the corn half ground, and if custom or usage were proven to be as it was said, why? That was the end of it, even though it were flat against Hugh, his wish and command. Wonderful! I said Puck, breaking in for the first time. The custom of old England was here before your Norman knights came, and it outlasted them, though they fought against it cruel. Not I, said Richard. I let the Saxons go their stubborn way, but when my own men at arms, Normans, not six months in England, stood up and told me what was the custom of the country, then I was angry. Ah, good days! Ah, wonderful people, and I loved them all. The knight lifted his arms as though he would hug the whole dear valley, and swallow, hearing the chink of his chain-mail looked up and whinnied softly. At last, he went on, after a year of striving and contriving and some little driving, dear Quilla came to the valley alone and without warning. I saw him first at the lower ford with a swine-herd's brat on his saddle-bow. There is no need for thee to give any account of thy stewardship, said he. I have it all from the child here, and he told me how the young thing had stopped his tall horse at the ford by waving of a branch and crying that the way was barred. And if one bold, bare babe be enough to guard the ford in these days, thou hast done well, said he, and puffed and wiped his head. He pinched the child's cheek and looked at our cattle in the flat by the brook. Both fat, said he, rubbing his nose. This is craft and cunning, such as I love. What did I tell thee when I rode away, boy? Hold the manor or hang, said I, I had never forgotten it. True, and thou hast held. He clambered from his saddle, and with swords-point cut out a turf from the bank, and gave it me where I kneeled. Dan looked at Euna, and Euna looked at Dan. That's season, said Puck, in a whisper. Now art thou lawfully seized of the manor, Sir Richard, said he. It was the first time he ever called me that. Thou and thy heirs for ever. This must serve till the king's clock right out thy title on parchment. England is all ours, if we can hold it. What service shall I pay? I asked, and I remember I was proud beyond words. Night's fee, boy, night's fee, said he, hopping round his horse on one foot. Have I said he was little, and could not endure to be helped into his saddle? Six mounted men, or twelve archers, thou shalt send me whenever I call for them, and—where got you that corn? said he, for it was near harvest, and our corn stood well. I have never seen such bright straw, send me three bags of the same seed yearly, and, furthermore, in memory of our last meeting, with the rope round thy neck, entertain me and my men for two days of each year in the great hall of thy manor. Alas! said I, then my manor is already forfeit. I am under vow not to enter the great hall, and I told him what I had sworn to the lady I live over. And hadn't you ever been into the house since? said Euna. Never, Sir Richard answered, smiling. I had made me a little hut of wood up the hill, and there I did justice and slept. Dear Quillar, we'll decide, and his shield shook on his back. No matter, boy, said he, I will remit the homage for a year. He meant Sir Richard needn't give him dinner there the first year, Puck explained. Dear Quillar stayed with me in the hut, and Hugh, who could read and write and cast accounts, showed him the role of the manor in which were written all the names of our fields and men, and he asked a thousand questions touching the land, the timber, the grazing, the mill, and the fishponds, and the worth of every man in the valley. But he never named that Lady Ilyueva's name, nor went he near the great hall. By night he drank with us in the hut. Yes, he sat on the straw like an eagle ruffled in her feathers, his yellow eyes rolling above the cup, and he pounced in his talk like an eagle, swooping from one thing to another, but always binding fast. Yes, he would lie still a while, and then rustle in the straw, and speak sometimes as though he were King William himself, and anon he would speak in parables and tails, and if at once we saw not his meaning, he would jerk us in the rib with his scabbarded sword. "'Look, you boys,' said he, "'I am born out of my due time. Five hundred years ago I would have made all England such an England as neither Dane, Saxon, nor Norman should have conquered. Five hundred years hence I should have been such a counsellor to Kings as the world hath never dreamed of. "'Tis all here,' said he, tapping his big head, but he hath no play in this black age. Now Hugh here is a better man than thou art, Richard.' He had made his voice harsh and croaking like a raven's. "'Truth,' said I, but for Hugh, his help and patience and long suffering, I could never have kept the manner. "'Nor thy life either,' said dear Quilla. "'Hugh has saved thee not once, but a hundred times. "'Be still, Hugh,' he said. "'Does thou know, Richard, why Hugh slept, and why he still sleeps among thy Norman men at arms?' "'To be near me,' said I, for I thought this was truth.' "'Fool,' said dear Quilla. "'It is because his Saxons have begged him to rise against thee, and to sweep every Norman out of the valley. No matter how I know, it is truth. Therefore Hugh hath made himself an hostage for thy life, well knowing that if any harm befell thee from his Saxons, thy Normans would slay him without remedy, and this his Saxons know. Is it true, Hugh?' "'In some sort,' said Hugh, shame-facedly. "'At least it was true half a year ago. My Saxons would not harm Richard now. I think they know him, but I judged it best to make sure.' "'Look, children, what that man had done, and I had never guessed it. Night after night had he lain down among my men at arms, knowing that if one Saxon had lifted knife against me, his life would have answered for mine.' "'Yes,' said dear Quilla, and he is a swordless man. He pointed to Hugh's belt, for Hugh had put away his sword. Did I tell you? The day after it flew from his hand at St. Lash. He carried only the short knife and the longbow. "'Swordless and landless art thou, Hugh, and they call thee kin to Earl Godwin?' Hugh was indeed of Godwin's blood. The manor that was thine was given to this boy and to his children for ever. Sit up and beg, for he can turn thee out like a dog, Hugh.' Hugh said nothing, but I heard his teeth grind, and I bade dear Quilla my own overlord hold his peace, or I would stuff his words down his throat. Then dear Quilla laughed till the tears ran down his face. "'I warned the king,' said he. "'What would come of giving England to us Norman thieves? Here art thou, Richard, less than two days confirmed in thy manner, and already thou hast written against thy overlord. What shall we do to him, sir Hugh?' "'I am a swordless man,' said Hugh. "'Do not jest with me,' and he laid his head on his knees and groaned. "'The greater fool thou,' said dear Quilla, and all his voice changed, for I have given thee the manner of Dallington up the hill this half hour since, and he yurked at Hugh with his scabbard across the straw. "'To me?' said Hugh. "'I am a Saxon, and, except that I love Richard here, I have not sworn fealty to any Norman.' "'In God's good time, which, because of my sins I shall not live to see, there will be neither Saxon nor Norman in England,' said dear Quilla. "'If I know men, thou art more faithful unsworn than a score of Normans I could name. Take Dallington, and join, sir Richard, to fight me to-morrow, if it please thee.' "'Nay,' said Hugh. "'I am no child. Where I take a gift, there I render service. And he put his hands between dear Quilla's and swore to be faithful, and, as I remember, I kissed him and dear Quilla kissed us both. We sat afterwards outside the hut, while the sun rose, and dear Quilla marked our Charles going to their work in the fields, and talked of holy things, and how we should govern our manners in time to come, and of hunting, and of horse-breeding, and of the king's wisdom and unwisdom, for he spoke to us as though we were in sorts now his brothers. And on, a Charles stole up to me. He was one of the three I had not hanged a year ago, and he bellowed, which is Saxon for whispering, that the Lady Islaueva would speak to me at the great house. She walked abroad daily in the manor, and it was her custom to send me word with as she went, that I might set an archer or two behind and in front to guard her. Very often I myself lay up in the woods and watched on her also. I went swiftly, and as I passed the great door it opened from within, and there stood my Lady Islaueva, and she said to me, Sir Richard, will it please you to enter your great hall? Then she wept, but we were alone. The night was silent for a long time, his face turned across the valley, smiling. Oh, well done, said Una, and clapped her hands very softly. She was sorry, and said so. I, she was sorry, and she said so, said Sir Richard, coming back with a little start. Very soon. But he said it was two full hours later. Dear Quilla rode to the door, with his shield new scoured, Hugh had cleansed it, and demanded entertainment, and called me a false night, that would starve his overlord to death. Then Hugh cried out that no man should work in the valley that day, and our Saxons blew horns, and set about feasting and drinking, and running of races, and dancing and singing. And dear Quilla climbed upon a horse-block, and spoke to them in what he swore was good Saxon, but no man understood it. At night we feasted in the great hall, and when the harpers and singers were gone, we four sat late at the high table. As I remember, it was a warm night with a full moon, and dear Quilla, bad Hugh, take down his sword from the wall again, for the honour of the manor of Dallington, and Hugh took it gladly enough. Dust lay on the hilt, for I saw him blow it off. She and I sat talking a little apart, and at first we thought the harpers had come back, for the great hall was filled with a rushing noise of music. Dear Quilla leapt up, but there was only the moonlight fretty on the door. Harkin, said Hugh, it is my sword, and as he belted it on, the music ceased. Over gods forbid that I should ever belt blade like that, said dear Quilla. What does it foretell? The gods that made it may know, last time it spoke, was at Hastings, when I lost all my lands. Be like, it sings now that I have new lands, and am a man again, said Hugh. He loosed the blade a little, and drove it back happily into the sheath, and the sword answered him low and croningly, as a woman would speak to a man, her head on his shoulder. Now that was the second time in all my life I heard this sword sing. Look, said Euna, there's mother coming down the long slip. What will she say to Sir Richard? She can't help seeing him. And Puck can't magic us this time, said Dan. Are you sure? said Puck, and he leaned forward and whispered to Sir Richard, who, smiling, bowed his head. But what befell the sword and my brother Hugh, I will tell on another time, said he, rising. Oh hey, swallow! The great horse cantered up from the far end of the meadow, close to mother. They heard mother say, Children, Gleason's old horse has broken into the meadow again. Where did he get through? Just below Stone Bay, said Dan. He tore down simple flops of the bank. We noticed it just now, and we caught no end of fish. We've been at it all the afternoon. And they honestly believed that they had. They never noticed the oak, ash, and thorn leaves that Puck had slightly thrown into their laps. End of Section 2 Young Men at the Manor Section 3 The Knights of the Joyous Venture from Puck of Pooks Hill This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Icy Jumbo Puck of Pooks Hill by Rudyard Kipling Section 3 The Knights of the Joyous Venture Sir Richard's Song I followed my Duke ere I was a lover to take from England thief and fee, but now this game is the other way over, but now England hath taken me. I had my horse, my shield, and banner, and a boy's heart so whole and free, but now I sing in another manner, but now England hath taken me. As for my father in his tower, asking news of my ship at sea, he will remember his own hour, tell him England hath taken me. As for my mother in her bower, that rules my father so cunningly, she will remember a maiden's power, tell her England hath taken me. As for my brother in Rouen City, a nimble and naughty page is he, but he will come to suffer and pity, tell him England hath taken me. As for my little sister waiting in the pleasant orchards of Normandy, tell her youth is the time for mating, tell her England hath taken me. As for my comrades in camp and highway, that lift their eyebrows scornfully, tell them their way is not my way, tell them England hath taken me. Kings and princes and barons famed, knights and captains in your degree, hear me a little before I am blamed, seeing England hath taken me. How so great man's strength be reckoned, there are two things he cannot flee, love is the first and death is the second, and love in England hath taken me. The Knights of the Joyous Venture, Harp Song of the Dane Women What is a woman that you forsake her and the hearthfire and the homeaker to go with the old grey widow-maker? She has no house to lay a guest in, but one chill bed for all to rest in, that the pale suns and the stray birds nest in. She has no strong white arms to fold you, but the ten times fingering weed to hold you bound on the rocks where the tide has rolled you. Yet when the signs of summer thicken, and the ice-breaks, and the birch-bud's quicken, yearly you turn from our side and sicken. Sicken again for the shouts and the slaughters, you steal away to the lapping waters and look at your ship in her winter quarters. You forget our mirth and talk at the tables, the kind in the shed and the horse in the stables, to pitch her sides and go over her cables. Then you drive out where the storm clouds swallow, and the sound of your ore-blades falling hollow is all we have left through the month to follow. Ah, what is woman that you forsake her, and the hearth-fire and the home-acre, to go with the old grey widow-maker? The Knights of the Joyous Venture It was too hot to run about in the open, so Dan asked their friend, old Hobbes, to take their own dinghy from the pond and put her on the brook at the bottom of the garden. Her painted name was the Daisy, but for exploring expeditions she was the Golden Hind, or the Long Serpent, or some such suitable name. Dan hiked and halked with a boat-hook. The brook was too narrow for the skulls, and Euna punted with a piece of hop-pole. When they came to a very shallow place, the Golden Hind drew quite three inches of water. They disembarked and scuffled her over the gravel by her toe-rope, and when they reached the overgrown banks beyond the garden, they pulled themselves upstream by the low branches. That day they intended to discover the North Cape, like Othera, the old sea-captain, in the Book of Verses which Euna had brought with her. But on account of the heat, they changed it to a voyage up the Amazon and the sources of the Nile. Even on the shaded water, the air was hot and heavy with drowsy scents, while outside, through breaks in the trees, the sunshine burned the pasture like fire. The kingfisher was asleep on his watching-branch, and the blackbirds scarcely took the trouble to dive into the next bush. Dragonflies, wheeling and clashing were the only things at work, except the moorhens, and a big red admiral who flapped down out of the sunshine for a drink. When they reached Oterpool, the Golden Hind grounded comfortably on a shallow, and they lay beneath the roof of close green, watching the water trickle over the flood-gates down the mossy brick chute from the mill-stream to the brook. A big trout, the children knew him well, rolled head and shoulders at some fly that sailed round the bend, while once, in just so often, the brook rose a fraction of an inch against all the wet pebbles, and they watched a slow draw and shiver of a breath of air through the treetops. Then the little voices of the slipping water began again. It's like the shadows talking, isn't it? said Yuna. She had given up trying to read. Dan lay over the boughs, trailing his hands in the current. They heard feet on the gravel-bar that runs half across the pool, and saw Sir Richard Dalingridge standing over them. Was yours a dangerous voyage? he asked, smiling. She bumped a lot, sir, said Dan. There's hardly any water this summer. Ah, the brook was deeper and wider when my children played at Danish pirates. Are you pirate folk? Oh no, we gave up being pirates years ago, explained Yuna. We're nearly always explorers now. Sailing round the world, you know. Round, said Sir Richard. He sat him in the comfortable crotch of the old ash-root on the bank. How can it be round? Wasn't it in your books, Dan suggested? He had been doing geography at his last lesson. I can neither write nor read, he replied. Can't thou read, child? Yes, said Dan, barring the very long words. Wonderful! Read to me that I may hear for myself. Dan flushed, but opened the book and began, gabbling a little, at the discoverer of the North Cape. Otheer, the old sea-captain, who dwelt in Helgoland, to Alfred, lover of truth, brought a snow-white walrus-tooth that he held in his right hand. But—but this I know! This is an old song! This I have heard sung! This is a miracle! Sir Richard interrupted. May, do not stop! He leaned forward, and the shadows of the leaves slipped and slid upon his chain-mail. I plowed the land with horses, but my heart was ill at ease, for the old sea-faring men came to me now and then with their sagas of the seas. His hand fell on the hilt of the great sword. This is truth, he cried, for so it did happen to me. And he beat time delightedly to the tramp of verse after verse. And now the land, said Otheer, bent southward suddenly, and I followed the curving shore, and ever southward bore, into a nameless sea. A nameless sea, he repeated, so did I, so did Hugh and I. Where did you go? Tell us, said Euna. Wait, let me hear all first. So Dan read to the poems very end. Good, said the night, that is Otheer's tale, even as I have heard the men in the Dane ships sing it, not in those same valiant words, but something like to them. Have you ever explored north? Dan shut the book. Nay, my venture was south, farther south than any man has fared. Hugh and I went down with Witta and his heathen. He jerked the tall sword forward, and leaned on it with both hands, but his eyes looked long past them. I thought you always lived here, said Euna timidly. Yes, while my lady Ilaueva lived. But she died. She died. Then, my eldest son being a man, I asked Dear Quillar's leave that he should hold the manor while I went on some journey or pilgrimage, to forget. Dear Quillar, whom the second William had made warden of Pevensey in Earlmortaine's place, was very old then, but still he rode his tall rown horses, and in the saddle he looked like a little white falcon. When Hugh at Dallington over Yonder heard what I did, he sent for my second son, whom, being unmarried, he had ever looked upon as his own child, and, by Dear Quillar's leave, gave him the manor of Dallington to hold till he should return. Then Hugh came with me. When did this happen? said Dan. That I can answer to the very day, for as we rode with Dear Quillar by Pevensey, have I said that he was Lord of Pevensey and of the honour of the eagle? To the Bordeaux ship that fetched him his wine yearly out of France, a Marshman ran to us, crying that he had seen a great black goat which bore upon his back the body of the king, and that the goat had spoken to him. On that same day, red William, our king, the conqueror's son, died of a secret arrow while he hunted in a forest. This is a cross matter, said Dear Quillar, to meet on the threshold of a journey. If red William be dead, I may have to fight for my lands. Wait a little. My lady being dead, I cared nothing for signs and omens, nor Hugh either. We took that wine-ship to go to Bordeaux, but the wind failed while we were yet in sight of Pevensey. A thick mist hid us, and we drifted with the tide along the cliffs to the west. Our company was, for the most part, merchants returning to France, and we were laden with wool, and there were three couple of tall hunting dogs chained to the rail. Their master was a knight of Artois. His name I never learned, but his shield bore gold pieces on a red ground, and he limped, much as I do, from a wound which he had got in his youth at Mont-Sige. He served the Duke of Burgundy against the Moors in Spain, and was returning to that war with his dogs. He sung a strange Moorish song that first night, and half persuaded us to go with him. I was on pilgrimage to forget, which is what no pilgrimage brings. I think I would have gone, but... Look, you, how the life and fortune of a man changes. Towards morning a dain-ship, rowing silently, struck against us in the mist, and while we rolled hither and yon, Hugh, leaning over the rail, fell outboard. I leapt after him, and we too tumbled aboard the dain, and were caught and bound ere we could rise. Our own ship was swallowed up in the mist. I judged the night of the gold pieces, muzzled his dogs with his cloak, lest they should give tongue and betray the merchants, for I heard their baying suddenly stop. We lay bound among the benches till morning, when the dains dragged us to the high deck by the steering-place, and their captain, Witta, he was called, turned us over with his foot. Bracelets of gold from elbow to armpit he wore, and his red hair was long as a woman's, and came down in plaited locks on his shoulder. He was stout with bowed legs and long arms. He spoiled us of all we had, but when he laid hand on Hugh's sword, and saw the runes on the blade, hastily he thrust it back. Yet his covetousness overcame him, and he tried again and again, and the third time the sword sang loud and angrily, so that the rowers leaned on their oars to listen. Here they all spoke together, screaming like gulls, and a yellow man, such as I have never seen, came to the high deck and cut our bonds. He was yellow, not from sickness, but by nature, yellow as honey, and his eye stood endwise in his head. �How do you mean?� said Euna, her chin on her hand. �Thus� said Sir Richard. He put a finger to the corner of each eye, and pushed it up till his eyes narrowed to slits. �Why, you look just like a Chinaman!� cried Dan. �Was the man a Chinaman?� �I know not what he may be. Witta had found him half dead among ice on the shores of Muscovy. We thought he was a devil. He crawled before us and brought food in a silver dish, which those sea-wools had robbed from some rich abbey, and Witta, with his own hands, gave us wine. He spoke a little in French, a little in South Saxon, and much in the Northman's tongue. We asked him to set us ashore, promising to pay him better ransom than he would get price if he sold us to the moors, as once befell a night of my acquaintance sailing from Flushing. �Not by my father Guthram's head,� said he. �The gods sent ye into my ship for a luck offering. At this I quaked, for I knew it was still the Danes' custom to sacrifice captives to their gods for fair weather. �A plague on thy four long bones,� said he. �What profit can't thou make of poor old pilgrims that can neither work nor fight?� �Gods forbid I should fight against thee, poor pilgrim with the singing sword,� said he. �Come with us, and be poor no more. Thy teeth are far apart, which is a sure sign thou wilt travel and grow rich. �What if we will not come?� said he. �Swim to England or France� said Witta. �We are midway between the two. Unless ye choose to drown yourselves, no hair of your head will be harmed here aboard. We think ye bring us luck, and I myself know the runes on that sword are good.� He turned and bent them hoist sail. Hereafter all made way for us as we walked about the ship, and the ship was full of wonders. �What was she like?� said Dan. �Long, low, and narrow, bearing one mast with a red sail, and road by fifteen oars aside� the knight answered. At her bowels was a deck under which men might lie, and at her stern another shut off by a painted door from the rowers' benches. Here Hugh and I slept, with Witta and the Yellow Man, upon tapestries as soft as wool. �I remember� he laughed to himself, �when first we entered there a loud voice cried, �Out swords, out swords, kill, kill!� Seeing a start Witta laughed, and showed us it was but a great beaked greybird with a red tail. He sat her on his shoulder, and she called for bread and wine hoarsely, and prayed him to kiss her. Yet she was no more than a silly bird. �But he knew this� he looked at their smiling faces. �We weren't laughing at you� said Euna. �That must have been a parrot, it's just what pollies do. So we learned later. But here is another marvel, the Yellow Man, whose name was Kitai, had with him a brown box. In the box was a blue bowl with red marks upon the rim, and within the bowl, hanging from a fine thread, was a piece of iron no thicker than that grass stem, and as long maybe as my spur, but straight. �In this iron� said Witta, abode an evil spirit which Kitai, the Yellow Man, had brought by art magic out of his own country that lay three years journey southward. The evil spirit strove day and night to return to his country, and therefore, look you, the iron needle pointed continually to the south. �South� said Dan suddenly, and put his hand into his pocket. �With my own eyes I saw it, every day and all day long, though the ship rolled, though the sun and the moon and the stars were hid. This blind spirit in the iron knew whether it would go and strained to the south. Witta called it the wise iron, because it showed him his way across the unknowable seas. Again Sir Richard looked keenly at the children. How think ye, was it sorcery? Was it anything like this? Dan fished out his old brass pocket compass, that generally lived with his knife and key-ring. The glasses got cracked, but the needle waggles all right, sir. The night drew a long breath of wonder. �Yes, yes, the wise iron shook and swung in just this fashion. Now it is still. Now it points to the south.� �North� said Dan. �Nay, south. �There is the south� said Sir Richard. Then they both laughed, for naturally, when one end of a straight compass needle points to the north, the other must point to the south. �Tay� said Sir Richard, clicking his tongue. �There can be no sorcery if a child carries it. Wherefore does it point south? Or north? �Father says that nobody knows� said Euna. Sir Richard looked relieved. �Then it may still be magic. It was magic to us. And so we voyaged. When the wind served, we hoisted sail, and lay all up along the windward rail, our shields on our backs to break the spray. When it failed, they rode with long oars. The yellow man sat by the wise iron, and Whitter steered. And first I feared the great white flowering waves. But as I saw how wisely Whitter led his ship among them, I grew bolder. Hugh liked it well from the first. My skill is not upon the water. And rocks and whirlpools, such as we saw by the west isles of France, where an awkort on a rock and brook are much against my stomach. We sailed south across a stormy sea, where by moonlight, between clouds, we saw a Flanders ship roll clean over and sink. Again, though Hugh laboured with Whitter all night, I lay under the deck with the talking bird, and cared not whether I lived or died. There is a sickness of the sea which, for three days, is pure death. When we next saw land, Whitter said it was Spain, and we stood out to sea. That coast was full of ships busy in the Duke's War against the Moors, and we feared to be hanged by the Duke's men, or sold into slavery by the Moors. So we put into a small harbour which Whitter knew. At night men came down with loaded mules, and Whitter exchanged amber out of the north against little wedges of iron and packets of beads in earthen pots. The pots he put under the decks, and the wedges of iron he laid on the bottom of the ship, after he had cast out the stones and shingle which till then had been our ballast. Wine too he bought for lumps of sweet-smelling grey amber, a little morsel no bigger than a thumbnail purchased a cask of wine. But I speak like a merchant. No, no, tell us what you had to eat, cried Dan. Meat dried in the sun, and dried fish and ground beans Whitter took in, and corded frails of a certain sweet soft fruit which the Moors use, which is like a paste of figs, but with thin, long stones. Aha, dates is the name. Now, said Whitter, when the ship was loaded, I counsel you strangers to pray to your gods, for from here on our road is no man's road. He and his men killed a black goat for sacrifice on the boughs, and the yellow man brought out a small smiling image of dull green glass and burned incense before it. Hugh and I commended ourselves to God and St Bartholomew and our Lady of the Assumption, who was specially dear to my Lady. We were not young, but I think no shame to say, when as we drove out of that secret harbour at sunrise over a still sea, we too rejoiced and sang, as did the Knights of Old, when they followed our great Duke to England. Yet was our leader and heathen pirate, all our proud fleet, but one galley perilously overloaded. For guidance we leaned on a pagan sorcerer, and our port was beyond the world's end. Whitter told us that his father, Guthrum, had once in his life rowed along the shores of Africa to a land where naked men sold gold for iron and beads. There he had bought much gold, and no few elephants' teeth, and thither, by help of the wise iron, would Whitter go. Whitter feared nothing except to be poor. My father told me, said Whitter, that a great shoal runs three days sail out from that land, and south of the shoal lies a forest which grows in the sea. South and east of the forest, my father came to a place where the men hid gold in their hair. But all that country, he said, was full of devils who lived in the trees and tore folk limb from limb. How think ye? Gold or no gold, said Hugh, fingering his sword, it is a joyous venture. Have at these devils of thine, Whitter? Venture, said Whitter sourly, I am only a poor sea-thief. I do not set my life adrift on a plank for joy, or the venture. Once I beat ship again at Stavenger, and feel the wife's arms around my neck, I'll seek no more ventures. A ship is heavier care than a wife or cattle. He leapt down among the rowers, chiding them for their little strength and their great stomachs. Yet Whitter was a wolf in fight, and a very fox in cunning. We were driven south by a storm, and for three days and three nights he took the stern ore and threadled the longship through the sea. When it rose beyond measure he break a pot of whale's oil upon the water, which wonderfully smoothed it, and in that anointed patch he turned her head to the wind, and threw out the oars at the end of a rope to make, he said, an anchor at which we lay rolling sorely, but dry. This graft his father Guthrum had shown him. He knew too all the leech-book of Bald, who was a wise doctor, and he knew the ship-book of Hlaf the woman, who robbed Egypt. He knew all the care of a ship. After the storm we saw a mountain whose top was covered with snow and pierced the clouds. The grasses under this mountain, boiled and eaten, are a good cure for sawness of the gums and swelled ankles. We lay there eight days till men in skins threw stones at us. When the heat increased Whitter spread a cloth on bent sticks above the rowers, for the wind failed between the island of the mountain and the shore of Africa, which is east of it. That shore is sandy, and we rode along it within three bow-shots. Here we saw whales, and fish in the shape of shields, but longer than our ship. Some slept, some opened their mouths at us, and some danced on the hot waters. The water was hot to the hand, and the sky was hidden by hot gray mists, out of which blew a fine dust that whitened our hair and beards of a morning. Here, too, were fish that flew in the air like birds. They would fall on the laps of the rowers, and when we went ashore we would roast and eat them. The night paused to see if the children doubted him, but they only nodded, and said, Go on! The yellow land lay on our left, the gray sea on our right. Night though I was, I pulled my oar amongst the rowers. I caught seaweed and dried it, and stuffed it between the pots of beads lest they should break. Nighthood is for the land. At sea, look you, a man is but a spurless rider on a bridal-less horse. I learned to make strong knots in ropes. Yes, and to join two ropes end to end, so that even Whitter could scarcely see where they had been married. But Hugh had tenfold more sea-cunning than I. Whitter gave him charge of the rowers of the left side. Thor killed of Borkham, a man with a broken nose that wore a Norman steel cap, had the rowers of the right, and each side rowed and sang against the other. They saw that no man was idle. Truly, as Hugh said, and Whitter would laugh at him, a ship is all more care than a manor. How? Thus! There was water to fetch from the shore when we could find it, as well as wild fruit and grasses, and sand for scrubbing of the decks and benches to keep them sweet. Also we hauled the ship out on low islands and emptied all her gear even to the iron wedges, and burned off the weed that had grown on her with torches of rush, and smoked below the decks with rushes dampened in salt water as half the woman orders in her ship-book. Once, when we were thus stripped, and the ship lay propped on her keel, the bird cried, Out-swords! as though she saw an enemy. Whitter vowed he would ring her neck. Poor Polly, did he? said Euna. Nay, she was the ship's bird. She could call all the rowers by name. Those were good days for a wifeless man, with Whitter and his heathen. Beyond the world's end. After many weeks we came on the great shoal which stretched, as Whitter's father had said, far out to sea. We skirted it till we were giddy with the sight, and dizzy with the sound of bars and breakers, and when we reached land again we found a naked black people dwelling among the woods, who for one wedge of iron loaded us with fruits and grasses and eggs. Whitter scratched his head at them, in sign he would buy gold. They had no gold, but they understood the sign. All the gold traders hide their gold in their thick hair, for they pointed along the coast. They beat two on their chests with their clenched hands, and that, if we had known it, was an evil sign. What did it mean? said Dan. Patience ye shall hear. We followed the coast eastward sixteen days, counting time by sword-cuts on the helm-rail, till we came to the forest in the sea. Trees grew out of the mud, arched upon lean and high roots, and many muddy waterways ran all wither into darkness under the trees. Here we lost the sun. We followed the winding channels between the trees, and where we could not row, we laid hold of the crusted roots and hold ourselves along. The water was foul, and great glittering flies tormented us. Morning and evening a blue mist covered the mud, which bred fevers. Four of our rowers sickened, and were bound to their benches, lest they should leap overboard and be eaten by the monsters of the mud. The yellow man lay sick beside the wise iron, rolling his head and talking in his own tongue. Only the bird throwed. She sat on Whitter's shoulder, and screamed in that noisome silent darkness. Yes, I think it was the silence we feared. He paused to listen to the comfortable home noises of the brook. When we had lost count of time among those black gullies and swashes, we heard, as it were, a drum beat far off, and following it we broke into a broad brown river by a hut in a clearing among the field of pumpkins. We thanked God to see the sun again. The people of the village gave the good welcome, and Whitter scratched his head at them, for gold, and showed them our iron and beads. They ran to the bank, we were still in the ship, we were still in the ship, and pointed to our swords and bows, for always when near shore we lay armed. Soon they fetched store of gold in bars and in dust from their huts, and some great blackened elephant teeth. These they piled on the bank, as though to tempt us, and made signs of dealing blows in battle, and pointed up to the treetops and the forest behind. Their captain or chief sorcerer then beat on his chest with his fists, and gnashed his teeth. Said Thorkeild of Borkham, Do they mean we must fight for all this gear, and he half drew his sword? Nay, said Hugh, I think they ask us to league against some enemy. I like this knot, said Whitter, of a sudden, back into the midstream. So we did, and sat still all, watching the black folk and the gold they piled on the bank. Again we heard drums beat in the forest, and the people fled to their huts, leaving the gold unguarded. Then Hugh, at the bows, pointed without speech, and we saw a great devil come out of the forest. He shaded his brows with his hand, and moistened his pink tongue between his lips, thus. A devil, said Dan, delightfully horrified. Yea, taller than a man, covered with reddish hair. When he had well regarded our ship, he beat on his chest with his fists till it sounded like rolling drums, and came to the bank, swinging all his body between his long arms, and gnashed his teeth at us. Hugh loosed Arrow, and pierced him through the throat. He fell, roaring, and three other devils ran out of the forest and hauled him into a tall tree out of sight. Anon, they cast down the bloodstained Arrow, and lamented together among the leaves. Whitter saw the gold on the bank. He was loath to leave it. Sirs, said he, no man had spoken till then. Yonder is that which we have come so far and so painfully to find, laid out to our very hand. Let us row in while these devils bewail themselves, and at least bear off what we may. Bald as a wolf, cunning as a fox, was Whitter. He set four archers on the foredeck to shoot the devils if they should leap from the tree, which was close to the bank. He manned ten oars aside and bade them watch his hand to row in or back out, and so coaxed he them toward the bank. But none would set foot ashore, though the gold was within ten paces. No man is hasty to his hanging. They whimpered at their oars like beaten hounds, and Whitter bit his fingers for rage. Said Hugh of a sudden, Hark! At first we thought it was the buzzing of the glittering flies on the water, but it grew loud and fierce so that all men heard. What! said Dan and Yuna. It was the sword. Sir Richard patted the smooth hilt. It sang as a dane sings before battle. I go, said Hugh, and he leapt from the boughs and fell among the gold. I was afraid to my four bones marrow, but for shame's sake I followed, and Thorkeild of Borkham leapt after me. None other came. Blame me not. cried Whitter behind us. I must abide by my ship. We three had no time to blame or praise. We stooped to the gold, and threw it back over our shoulders, one hand on our swords, and one eye on the tree, which nigh overhung us. I know not how the devils leapt down, or how the fight began. I heard Hugh cry, out, out! as though he were at Sunlush again. I saw Thorkeild's steel cap smitten off his head by a great hairy hand, and I felt an arrow from the ship whistle past my ear. They say that till Whitter took his sword to the rowers he could not bring his ship in shore, and each one of the four archers said afterwards that he alone had pierced the devil that fought me. I do not know. I went into it in my male shirt, which saved my skin. With longsword and belt-dagger I fought for the life against a devil whose very feet were hands, and who whirled me back and forth like a dead branch. He had me by the waist, my arms to my side, when an arrow from the ship pierced him between the shoulders, and he loosened grip. I passed my sword twice through him, and he crouched himself away between his long arms, coughing and moaning. Next, as I remember, I saw Thorkeild of Borkham bare-headed and smiling, leaping up and down before a devil that leapt and gnashed his teeth. Then Hugh passed, his sword shifted to his left hand, and I wondered why I had not known that Hugh was a left-handed man, and thereafter I remembered nothing till I felt spray on my face, and we were in sunshine on the open sea. That was twenty days after. What had happened? Did Hugh die? the children asked. Never was such a fight fought by christened man, said Sir Richard. An arrow from the ship had saved me from my devil, and Thorkeild of Borkham had given back before his devil till the bowman on the ship could shoot it full of arrows from nearby. But Hugh's devil was cunning, and had kept behind trees where no arrow could reach. Body to body there, by stark strength of sword and hand, had Hugh slain him, and, dying, the thing had clenched his teeth on the sword. Judge what teeth they were! Sir Richard turned the sword again, that the children might see the two great chiseled gouges on either side of the blade. Those same teeth met in Hugh's right arm and side, Sir Richard went on. I? Oh, I had no more than a broken foot and a fever. Thorkeild's ear was bitten, but Hugh's arm and side clean withered away. I saw him where he lay along, sucking a fruit in his left hand. His flesh was wasted off his bones, his hair was patched with white, and his hand was blue veined like a woman's. He put his left hand round my neck and whispered, Take my sword, it has been thine since hastings, oh my brother, but I can never hold hilt again. We lay there on the high deck, talking of sunlush, and, I think, of every day since sunlush, and it came so that we both wept. I was weak, and he little more than a shadow. Nay, nay, said Witte, at the helm rail. Gold is a good right arm to any man. Look, look at the gold! He bad Thorkeild show us all the gold and the elephant's teeth, as though he had been children. He had brought away all the gold on the bank, and, twice as much more, that the people of the village gave him for slaying the devils. They worshipped us as gods, Thorkeild told me. It was one of their old women healed up Hugh's poor arm. How much gold did you get? asked Dan. How can I say? Where we came out with wedges of iron under the rowers' feet, we returned with wedges of gold hidden beneath planks. There was dust of gold in packages where we slept, and along the side and crosswise under the benches we lashed the blackened elephant's teeth. I had sooner have my right arm, said Hugh, when he had seen all. Ahay! that was my fault, said Witte. I should have taken ransom and landed you in France when first you came aboard ten months ago. It is over late now, said Hugh, laughing. Witte plucked at his long shoulder-lock. But think, said he, if I had let you go, which I swear I never would have done, for I love you more than brothers, if I had let you go, by now you might have been horribly slain by some mere more in the Duke of Burgundy's War, or you might have been murdered by land thieves, or you might have died of the plague at an inn. Think of this, and do not blame me over much, Hugh. See, I will only take half of the gold. I will not blame thee at all, Witte, said Hugh. It was a joyous venture, and we thirty-five here have done what never men have done. If I live till England, I will build me a stout keep over Dallington out of my share. I will buy cattle, and amber, and warm red cloth for the wife, said Witte, and I will hold all the land at the head of Stavanger Fjord. Many will fight for me now, but first we must turn north, and with this honest treasure-aboard I pray we meet no pirate ships. We did not laugh. We were careful. We were afraid lest we should lose one grain of our gold for which we had fought devils. Where is the sorcerer, said I? For Witte was looking at the wise iron in the box, and I could not see the yellow man. He has gone to his own country, said he. He rose up in the night while we were beating out of that forest in the mud, and said that he could see it behind the trees. He leapt out onto the mud, and did not answer when we called, so we called no more. He left the wise iron, which is all that I care for, and, see, the spirit still points to the south. We were troubled for fear that the wise iron should fail us now that its yellow man had gone, and when we saw the spirit still served us, we grew afraid of two strong winds, and of shoals, and of careless leaping fish, and of all the people on the shores where we landed. Why? said Dan. Because of the gold, because of our gold. Gold changes men's lives, and it is the most important thing that gold changes men altogether. Thorkeild of Borkham did not change. He laughed at Witter for his fears, and at us for counselling Witter to furl sail when the ship pitched at all. Better be drowned out of hand, said Thorkeild of Borkham, than to go tied to a deck-load of yellow dust. He was a landless man, and had been slaved to some king in the east. He would have beaten out the gold into deep bands to put around the oars Yet, though he vexed himself for the gold, Witter waited upon Hugh like a woman, lending him his shoulder when the ship rolled, and tying ropes from side to side that Hugh might hold by them. But for Hugh, he said, and so did all his men, they would never have won the gold. I remember Witter made a little thin gold ring for our bird to swing in. Three months we rode and sailed, and went ashore for fruits, or to clean the ship. When we saw the wild horsemen riding among sand dunes, flourishing spears, we knew we were on the Moors coast, and stood over north to Spain, and a strong south-west wind bore us in ten days to a coast of high red rocks, where we heard a hunting-horn blow among the yellow gorse, and knew it was England. Now you find Pevensey yourselves, said Witter, I love not these narrow ship-filled seas. He set the dry salted head of the devil which Hugh had killed high on our prow, and all boats fled from us. Yet, for our gold's sake, we were more afraid than they. We crept along the coast by night till we came to the chalk cliffs, and so east to Pevensey. Witter would not come ashore with us, though Hugh promised him wine at Dallington enough to swim in. He was on fire to see his wife, and ran into the marsh after sunset, and there he left us and our share of gold, and backed out on the same tide. He made no promise, he swore no oath, he looked for no thanks, but to Hugh, an armless man, and to me, an old cripple whom he could have flung into the sea, he passed over wedge upon wedge, packet upon packet of gold and dust of gold, and only ceased when we would take no more. As he stooped from the rail to bid us farewell, he stripped off his right arm bracelets and put them all on Hugh's left, and he kissed Hugh on the cheek. I think when Thorkeild of Borkham bade the rowers give way, we were near weeping. It is true that Witter was an heathen and a pirate. True it is, he held us by force many months in his ship, but I loved that bow-legged, blue-eyed man for his great boldness, his cunning, his skill, and beyond all for his simplicity. Did he get home all right? said Dan. I never knew. We saw him hoist sail under the moon-track and stand away. I have prayed that he found his wife and the children. And what did you do? We waited on the marsh till the day, then I sat by the gold, all tied in an old sail, while Hugh went to Pevensey, and Dear Quillar sent us horses. Sir Richard crossed hands on his sword-hilt, and stared through the stream through the soft warm shadows. A whole ship full of gold, said Euna, looking at the little golden hind. But I am glad I didn't see the devils. I don't believe they were devils, Dan whispered back. Hey! said Sir Richard. Witter's father warned him that they were unquestionable devils. One must believe one's father and not one's children. What were my devils then? Dan flushed all over. I only thought, he stammered. I've got a book called The Gorilla Hunters. It's a continuation of Coral Island, sir, and it says there that the gorillas, their big monkeys, you know, were always chewing iron up. Not always, said Euna, only twice. They had been reading The Gorilla Hunters in the orchard. Well, anyhow, they always drummed on their chests, like Sir Richard's did, before they went for people, and they built houses in trees, too. Ha! Sir Richard opened his eyes. Houses like flat nests did our devils make, where their imps lay, and looked at us. I did not see them. I was sick after the fight. But Witter told me, and lo, you know it also? Wonderful! Were our devils only nest-building apes? Is there no sorcery left in the world? I don't know, answered Dan uncomfortably. I've seen a man take rabbits out of a hat, and he told us we could see how he did it, if we watched hard. And we did. But we didn't, said Euna, sighing. Oh, there's Puck! The little fellow, brown and smiling, peered between two stems of an ash, nodded, and slid down the bank into the cool beside them. No sorcery, Sir Richard. He laughed, and blew on a full dandelion-head he had picked. They tell me that Witter's wise iron was a toy. The boy carries such an iron with him. They tell me our devils were apes, called guerrillas, said Sir Richard indignantly. That is the sorcery of books, said Puck. I warned thee that they were wise children. All people can be wise by reading of books. But are the books true? Sir Richard frowned. I do not like all this reading and writing. Yes, said Puck, holding the naked dandelion-head in his hand. I don't know. I don't know. But if we hang all fellows who write falsely, why did Dear Quilla not begin with Gilbert the Clark? He was false enough. Poor false Gilbert. Yet in his fashion he was bold, said Sir Richard. What did he do? Said Dan. He wrote, said Sir Richard. Is the tale meat for children, think you? He looked at Puck. But tell us, tell us! cried Dan and Euna together. End of Section 3 The Knights of the Joyous Venture