about a thousand years - and at the end of 'em I went into
one of his temples near Andover to see how he prospered.
There was his altar, and there was his image, and
there were his priests, and there were the congregation,
and everybody seemed quite happy, except Weland and
the priests. In the old days the congregation were
unhappy until the priests had chosen their sacrifices; and so
would you have been. When the service began a priest
rushed out, dragged a man up to the altar, pretended to
hit him on the head with a little gilt axe, and the man fell
down and pretended to die. Then everybody shouted:
"A sacrifice to Weland! A sacrifice to Weland!"'

'And the man wasn't really dead?' said Una.

'Not a bit. All as much pretence as a dolls' tea-party.
Then they brought out a splendid white horse, and the
priest cut some hair from its mane and tail and burned it
on the altar, shouting, "A sacrifice!" That counted the
same as if a man and a horse had been killed. I saw poor
Weland's face through the smoke, and I couldn't help
laughing. He looked so disgusted and so hungry, and all
he had to satisfy himself was a horrid smell of burning
hair. Just a dolls' tea-party!

'I judged it better not to say anything then ('twouldn't
have been fair), and the next time I came to Andover, a
few hundred years later, Weland 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