'Oh yes, and he shouted his old war-cry when the
farmer thudded on to the ground. He was delighted.
Then the novice turned to the oak tree 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
to 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 poor Weland do?' said Una.

'He laughed and he 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 Weland. "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-grey, wavy-lined sword -
and I blew the fire while he hammered. By Oak, Ash and
Thorn, I tell you, Weland 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 Weland ever made. Even the user will never know
how good it is. Come to the monastery."