And the Lenty Slowworm curses God For the sake of the rain-elf’s pitifulness. He lifts his head from the watercress, He lifts his head from the quaker-grass, From the hoof-marks where the cattle pass, He lifts his head from the heavy sod, And under the loosestrife he curses God! And the newts and the tadpoles who where she lay Mocked her from bellies white, orange, and grey, Cry now to willow and water and weed, “Lenty Pond has a prophet indeed!” For the rain-elf weeps no more to her pillow Woven of twigs of the weeping-willow; But her lover, come back to the laughing rain-elf, Cries, “The Slowworm of Lenty is God Himself!”

“Bravo!” cried Wolf. “Thank the Lord you managed to comfort that poor girl!”

“She wasn’t a girl,” said Jason, colouring a little.

“Eh? What’s that?” ejaculated the other. “How could she have a lover then?”