Part 30

‘He looked at me a long time, and bowed his head slanting like a Spaniard. “Follow it, boy,” he said. That was all. I was only too glad to get away, though I had many messages for home. I found my men standing as they had been put—they had not even shifted their feet in the dust,—and off I marched, still feeling that terrific smile like an east wind up my back. I never halted them till sunset, and’—he turned about and looked at Pook’s Hill below him—‘then I halted yonder.’ He pointed to the broken, bracken-covered shoulder of the Forge Hill behind old Hobden’s cottage.

‘There? Why, that’s only the old Forge—where they made iron once,’ said Dan.

‘Very good stuff it was too,’ said Parnesius, calmly. ‘We mended three shoulder-straps here and had a spear-head riveted. The forge was rented from the Government by a one-eyed smith from Carthage. I remember we called him Cyclops. He sold me a beaver-skin rug for my sister’s room.’

‘But it couldn’t have been here,’ Dan insisted.

‘But it was! From the Altar of Victory at Anderida to the First Forge in the Forest here is twelve miles seven hundred paces. It is all in the Road Book. A man doesn’t forget his first march. I think I could tell you every station between this and——’ He leaned forward, but his eye was caught by the setting sun.

It had come down to the top of Cherry Clack Hill, and the light poured in between the tree trunks so that you could see red and gold and black deep into the heart of Far Wood; and Parnesius in his armour shone as though he had been afire.

‘Wait,’ he said, lifting a hand, and the sunlight jinked on his glass bracelet. ‘Wait! I pray to Mithras!’

He rose and stretched his arms westward, with deep, splendid-sounding words.

Then Puck began to sing too, in a voice like bells tolling, and as he sang he slipped from ‘Volaterrae’ to the ground, and beckoned the children to follow. They obeyed; it seemed as though the voices were pushing them along; and through the goldy-brown light on the beech leaves they walked, while Puck between them chanted something like this:—

Cur mundus militat sub vana gloria Cujus prosperitas est transitoria? Tam cito labitur ejus potentia Quam vasa figuli quæ sunt fragilia.

They found themselves at the little locked gates of the wood.

Quo Cæsar abiit celsus imperio? Vel Dives splendidus totus in prandio? Dic ubi Tullius——

Still singing, he took Dan’s hand and wheeled him round to face Una as she came out of the gate. It shut behind her, at the same time as Puck threw the memory-magicking Oak, Ash, and Thorn leaves over their heads.

‘Well, you are jolly late,’ said Una. ‘Couldn’t you get away before?’

‘I did,’ said Dan. ‘I got away in lots of time, but—but I didn’t know it was so late. Where’ve you been?’

‘In Volaterrae—waiting for you.’

‘Sorry,’ said Dan. ‘It was all that beastly Latin.’

A BRITISH-ROMAN SONG

(A. D. 406)

My father’s father saw it not, And I, belike, shall never come, To look on that so-holy spot— The very Rome—

Crowned by all Time, all Art, all Might, The equal work of Gods and Man— City beneath whose oldest height The Race began,—

Soon to send forth again a brood Unshakeable, we pray, that clings, To Rome’s thrice-hammered hardihood— In arduous things.

Strong heart with triple armour bound, Beat strongly, for thy life-blood runs, Age after Age, the Empire round— In us thy Sons,

Who, distant from the Seven Hills, Loving and serving much, require Thee, Thee to guard ’gainst home-born ills, The Imperial Fire!

ON THE GREAT WALL

ON THE GREAT WALL

When I left Rome for Lalage’s sake By the Legions’ Road to Rimini, She vowed her heart was mine to take With me and my shield to Rimini— (Till the Eagles flew from Rimini!) And I’ve tramped Britain and I’ve tramped Gaul And the Pontic shore where the snow-flakes fall As white as the neck of Lalage— As cold as the heart of Lalage! And I’ve lost Britain and I’ve lost Gaul

(the voice seemed very cheerful about it),