'Good!' said he, in a surprised tone.
'It should be. The Children of the Night made it,' the man answered.
'So I see by the iron. What might it have cost you?'
'This!' The man raised his hand to his cheek. Puck whistled like
a Weald starling.
'By the Great Rings of the Chalk!' he cried. 'Was that your
price? Turn sunward that I may see better, and shut your eye.'
He slipped his hand beneath the man's chin and swung him till
he faced the children up the slope. They saw that his right eye was
gone, and the eyelid lay shrunk. Quickly Puck turned him round
again, and the two sat down.
'It was for the sheep. The sheep are the people,' said the man, in
an ashamed voice. 'What else could I have done? You know, Old
One.'
Puck sighed a little fluttering sigh. 'Take the knife. I listen.'
The man bowed his head, drove the knife into the turf, and
while it still quivered said: 'This is witness between us that I speak
the thing that has been. Before my Knife and the Naked Chalk I
speak. Touch!'
Puck laid a hand on the hilt. It stopped shaking. The children
wriggled a little nearer.
'I am of the People of the Worked Flint.
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