Then Puck began to sing too, in a voice like bells tolling, and as he sang he slipped from ‘Volaterrae’ to the ground, and beckoned the children to follow. They obeyed; it seemed as though the voices were pushing them along; and through the goldy-brown light on the beech leaves they walked, while Puck between them chanted something like this:— Cur mundus militat sub vana gloria Cujus prosperitas est transitoria? Tam cito labitur ejus potentia Quam vasa figuli quæ sunt fragilia. They found themselves at the little locked gates of the wood. Quo Cæsar abiit celsus imperio? Vel Dives splendidus totus in prandio? Dic ubi Tullius—— Still singing, he took Dan’s hand and wheeled him round to face Una as she came out of the gate. It shut behind her, at the same time as Puck threw the memory-magicking Oak, Ash, and Thorn leaves over their heads. ‘Well, you _are_ jolly late,’ said Una. ‘Couldn’t you get away before?’ ‘I did,’ said Dan. ‘I got away in lots of time, but—but I didn’t know it was so late. Where’ve you been?’ ‘In Volaterrae—waiting for you.’ ‘Sorry,’ said Dan. ‘It was all that beastly Latin.’ A BRITISH-ROMAN SONG (A. D. 406) _My father’s father saw it not,_ _And I, belike, shall never come,_ _To look on that so-holy spot—_ _The very Rome—_ _Crowned by all Time, all Art, all Might,_ _The equal work of Gods and Man—_ _City beneath whose oldest height_ _The Race began,—_ _Soon to send forth again a brood_ _Unshakeable, we pray, that clings,_ _To Rome’s thrice-hammered hardihood—_ _In arduous things._ _Strong heart with triple armour bound,_ _Beat strongly, for thy life-blood runs,_ _Age after Age, the Empire round—_ _In us thy Sons,_ _Who, distant from the Seven Hills,_ _Loving and serving much, require_ _Thee, Thee to guard ’gainst home-born ills,_ _The Imperial Fire!_ ON THE GREAT WALL ON THE GREAT WALL When I left Rome for Lalage’s sake By the Legions’ Road to Rimini, She vowed her heart was mine to take With me and my shield to Rimini— (Till the Eagles flew from Rimini!) And I’ve tramped Britain and I’ve tramped Gaul And the Pontic shore where the snow-flakes fall As white as the neck of Lalage— As cold as the heart of Lalage! And I’ve lost Britain and I’ve lost Gaul (the voice seemed very cheerful about it), And I’ve lost Rome, and worst of all, I’ve lost Lalage! They were standing by the gate to Far Wood when they heard this song. Without a word they hurried to their private gap and wriggled through the hedge almost atop of a jay that was feeding from Puck’s hand. ‘Gently!’ said Puck. ‘What are you looking for?’ ‘Parnesius, of course,’ Dan answered. ‘We’ve only just remembered yesterday. It isn’t fair.’