Parnesius stopped. The children sat still, not even asking if that were all the tale. Puck beckoned, and pointed the way out of the wood. 'Sorry,' he whispered, 'but you must go now.'
'We haven't made him angry, have we?' said Una. 'He looks so far off, and—and—thinky.'
'Bless your heart, no. Wait till tomorrow. It won't be long. Remember, you've been playing Lays of Ancient Rome.'
And as soon as they had scrambled through their gap where Oak, Ash, and Thorn grew, that was all they remembered.
A SONG TO MITHRAS
Mithras, God of the Morning, our trumpets waken the Wall! 'Rome is above the Nations, but Thou art over all!' Now as the names are answered, and the guards are marched away, Mithras, also a soldier, give us strength for the day!
Mithras, God of the Noontide, the heather swims in the heat, Our helmets scorch our foreheads, our sandals burn our feet. Now in the ungirt hour; now ere we blink and drowse, Mithras, also a soldier, keep us true to our vows!
Mithras, God of the Sunset, low on the Western main, Thou descending immortal, immortal to rise again! Now when the watch is ended, now when the wine is drawn, Mithras, also a soldier, keep us pure till the dawn!