"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."
'We went to the dormitory where the monks slept, we
saw the novice fast asleep in his cot, and Weland put the
sword into his hand, and I remember the young fellow
gripped it in his sleep. Then Weland strode as far as he
dared into the Chapel and threw down all his shoeing-
tools - his hammers and pincers and rasps - to show that
he had done with them for ever. It sounded like suits of
armour falling, and the sleepy monks ran in, for they
thought the monastery had been attacked by the French.
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