So Geoffrey was left in his prison to whatever comfort meditation might bring him; and the monks of Oyster-le-Main took off their gowns, and made themselves ready for another visit to the wine-cellars of Wantley Manor.

The day before Christmas came bleakly to its end over dingle and fen, and the last gray light died away. Yet still you could hear the hissing snow beat down through the bramble-thorn and the dry leaves. After evening was altogether set in, Hubert brought the knight a supper that was not a meal a hungry man might be over joyful at seeing; yet had Hubert (in a sort of fellowship towards one who seemed scarcely longer seasoned in manhood than himself, and whom he had seen blacken eyes in a very valiant manner) secretly prepared much better food than had been directed by his worship the Abbot.

The prisoner feigned sleep, and started up at the rattle which the plate made as it was set down under his bars.

"Is it morning?" he asked.

"Morning, forsooth!" Hubert answered. "Three more hours, and we reach only midnight." And both young men (for different reasons) wished in their hearts it were later.

"Thou speakest somewhat curtly for a friar," said Geoffrey.

"Alas, I am but a novice, brother," whined the minstrel, "and fall easily back into my ancient and godless syntax. There is food. Pax vobiscum, son of the flesh." Then Hubert went over to the closet, and very quietly unlocking the door removed the crocodile and the various other implements that were necessary in bringing into being the dread Dragon of Wantley. He carried them away to a remote quarter of the Monastery, where the Guild began preparations that should terrify any superstitious witness of their journey to get the Baron's wine. Geoffrey, solitary and watchful in his chilly cage, knew what work must be going on, and waited his time in patience.



At supper over at Wantley there was but slight inclination to polite banter. Only the family Chaplain, mindful that this was Christmas Eve, attempted to make a little small talk with Sir Godfrey.

"Christmas," he observed to the Baron, "is undoubtedly coming."

As the Baron did not appear to have any rejoinder to this, the young divine continued, pleasantly.

"Though indeed," he said, "we might make this assertion upon any day of the three hundred and sixty-five, and (I think) remain accurate."

"The celery," growled the Baron, looking into his plate.

"Quite so," cried the Chaplain, cheerily. He had failed to catch the remark. "Though of course everything does depend on one's point of view, after all."

"That celery, Whelpdale!" roared Sir Godfrey.

The terrified Buttons immediately dropped a large venison pasty into Mrs. Mistletoe's lap. She, having been somewhat tried of late, began screeching. Whelpdale caught up the celery, and blindly rushed towards Sir Godfrey, while Popham, foreseeing trouble, rapidly ascended the sideboard. The Baron stepped out of Whelpdale's path, and as he passed by administered so much additional speed that little Buttons flew under the curtained archway and down many painful steps into the scullery, and was not seen again during that evening.

When Sir Godfrey had reseated himself, it seemed to the Rev. Hucbald (such was the Chaplain's name) that the late interruption might be well smoothed over by conversation. So he again addressed the Baron.

"To be sure," said he, taking a manner of sleek clerical pleasantry, "though we can so often say 'Christmas is coming,' I suppose that if at some suitable hour to-morrow afternoon I said to you, 'Christmas is going,' you would grant it to be a not inaccurate remark?" The Baron ate his dinner.

"I think so," pursued the Rev. Hucbald. "Yes. And by the way, I notice with pleasure that this snow, which falls so continually, makes the event of a green Christmas most improbable. Indeed,—of course the proverb is familiar to you?—the graveyards should certainly not be fat this season. I like a lean graveyard," smiled the Rev. Hucbald.

"I hate a —— fool!" exclaimed Sir Godfrey, angrily.

After this the family fell into silence. Sir Godfrey munched his food, brooding gloomily over his plundered wine-cellar; Mrs. Mistletoe allowed fancy to picture herself wedded to Father Anselm, if only he had not been a religious person; and Elaine's thoughts were hovering over the young man who sat in a cage till time came for him to steal out and come to her. But the young lady was wonderfully wise, nevertheless.

"Papa," she said, as they left the banquet-hall, "if it is about me you're thinking, do not be anxious any more at all."

"Well, well; what's the matter now?" said the Baron.

"Papa, dear," began Elaine, winsomely pulling at a tassel on his dining-coat, "do you know, I've been thinking."

"Think some more, then," he replied. "It will come easier when you're less new at it."

"Now, papa! just when I've come to say—when I want—when you—it's very hard——" and here the artful minx could proceed no further, but turned a pair of shining eyes at him, and then looked the other way, blinking rapidly.

"Oh, good Lord!" muttered Sir Godfrey, staring hard at the wall.

"Papa—it's about the Dragon—and I've been wrong. Very wrong. Yes; I know I have. I was foolish." She was silent again. Was she going to cry, after all? The Baron shot a nervous glance at her from the corner of his eye. Then he said, "Hum!" He hoped very fervently there were to be no tears. He desired to remain in a rage, and lock his daughter up, and not put anything into her stocking this Christmas Eve; and here she was, threatening to be sorry for the past, and good for the future, and everything a parent could wish. Never mind. You can't expect to get off as easily as all that. She had been very outrageous. Now he would be dignified and firm.

"Of course I should obey Father Anselm," she continued.

"You should obey me," said Sir Godfrey.

"And I do hope another Crusade will come soon. Don't you think they might have one, papa? How happy I shall be when your wine is safe from that horrid Dragon!"

"Don't speak of that monster!" shouted the Baron, forgetting all about firmness and dignity. "Don't dare to allude to the reptile in my presence. Look here!" He seized up a great jug labelled "Chateau Lafitte," and turned it upside down.

"Why, it's empty!" said Elaine.

"Ha!" snorted the Baron; "empty indeed." Then he set the jug down wrong side up, and remained glaring at it fixedly, while his chest rose and fell in deep heavings.

"Don't mind it so much, papa," said Elaine, coming up to him. "This very next season will Mistletoe and I brew a double quantity of cowslip wine."

"Brrrrooo!" went Sir Godfrey, with a shiver.

"And I'm sure they'll have another Crusade soon; and then my brother Roland can go, and the Drag— and the curse will be removed. Of course, I know that is the only way to get rid of it, if Father Anselm said so. I was very foolish and wrong. Indeed I was," said she, and looked up in his face with eyes where shone such dear, good, sweet, innocent, daughterly affection, that nobody in the wide world could have suspected she was thinking as hard as she could think, "If only he won't lock me up! if only he won't! But, oh, it's dreadful in me to be deceiving him so!"

"There, there!" said the Baron, and cleared his throat. Then he kissed her. Where were firmness and dignity now?

He let her push him into the chimney-corner, and down into a seat; and then what did this sly, shocking girl do but sit on his knee and tell him nobody ever had such a papa before, and she could never possibly love any one half so much as she loved him, and weren't he and she going to have a merry Christmas to-morrow?

"How about that pretty young man? Hey? What?" said Sir Godfrey, in high good-humour.

"Who?" snapped Elaine.

"I think this girl knows," he answered, adopting a roguish countenance.

"Oh, I suppose you mean that little fellow this morning. Pooh!"

"Ho! ho!" said her father. "Ho! ho! Little fellow! He was a pretty large fellow in somebody's eyes, I thought. What are you so red about? Ho! ho!" and the Baron popped his own eyes at her with vast relish.

"Really, papa," said Miss Elaine, rising from his knee, with much coldness, "I hardly understand you, I think. If you find it amusing (and you seem to) to pretend that I——" she said no more, but gave a slight and admirable toss of the head. "And now I am very sleepy," she added. "What hour is it?"

Sir Godfrey took out his grandfather's sun-dial, and held it to the lamp. "Bless my soul," he exclaimed; "it's twenty-two o'clock." (That's ten at night nowadays, young people, and much too late for you to be down-stairs, any of you.)

"Get to your bed at once," continued Sir Godfrey, "or you'll never be dressed in time for Chapel on Christmas morning."

So Elaine went to her room, and took off her clothes, and hung up her stocking at the foot of the bed. Did she go to sleep? Not she. She laid with eyes and ears wide open. And now alone here in the dark, where she had nothing to do but wait, she found her heart beating in answer to her anxious and expectant thoughts. She heard the wind come blustering from far off across the silent country. Then a snore from Mistletoe in the next room made her jump. Twice a bar of moonlight fell along the floor, wavering and weak, then sank out, and the pat of the snow-flakes began again. After a while came a step through the halls to her door, and stopped. She could scarcely listen, so hard she was breathing. Was her father going to turn the key in her door, after all? No such thought was any longer in his mind. She shut her eyes quickly as he entered. His candle shone upon her quiet head, that was nearly buried out of sight; then laughter shook him to see the stocking, and he went softly out. He had put on his bed-room slippers; but, as he intended to make a visit to the cellar before retiring, it seemed a prudent thing to wear his steel breast-plate; and over this he had slipped his quilted red silk dressing-gown, for it was a very cold night.



Was there a sound away off somewhere out-of-doors? No. He descended heavily through the sleeping house. When the candle burned upright and clear yellow, his gait was steady; but he started many times at corners where its flame bobbed and flattened and shrunk to a blue, sickly rag half torn from the wick. "Ouf! Mort d'aieul!" he would mutter. "But I must count my wine to-night." And so he came down into the wide cellars, and trod tiptoe among the big round tuns. With a wooden mallet he tapped them, and shook his head to hear the hollow humming that their emptiness gave forth. No oath came from him at all, for the matter was too grievous. The darkness that filled everywhere save just next to the candle, pressed harder and harder upon him. He looked at the door which led from inside here out into the night, and it was comfortable to know how thick were the panels and how stout the bolts and hinges.

"I can hold my own against any man, and have jousted fairly in my time," he thought to himself, and touched his sword. "But—um!" The notion of meeting a fiery dragon in combat spoke loudly to the better part of his valour. Suddenly a great rat crossed his foot. Ice and fire went from his stomach all through him, and he sprang on a wooden stool, and then found he was shaking. Soon he got down, with sweaty hands.

"Am I getting a coward?" he asked aloud. He seized the mallet that had fallen, and struck a good knock against the nearest hogshead. Ah—ha! This one, at least, was full. He twisted the wooden stop and drank what came, from the hollow of his hand. It was cowslip wine. Ragingly he spluttered and gulped, and then kicked the bins with all his might. While he was stooping to rub his toe, who should march in but Miss Elaine, dressed and ready for young Geoffrey. But she caught sight of her father in time, and stepped back into the passage in a flutter. Good heavens! This would never do. Geoffrey might be knocking at the cellar-door at any moment. Her papa must be got away at once.

"Papa! papa!" she cried, running in.

Sir Godfrey sprang into the air, throwing mallet and candle against the wine-butts. Then he saw it was only his daughter.

"Wretched girl! you—you—if you don't want to become an orphan, never tamper like that with my nerves again in your life. What are you come here for? How dare you leave your bed at such an hour?"

"Oh, mercy forgive us!" whimpered a new voice.

There was Mistletoe at the door of the passage, a candle lifted high above her head and wobbling, so that it shook the grease all over her night-cap. With the other hand she clutched her camisole, while beneath a yellow flannel petticoat her fat feet were rocking in the raw-wool foot-mittens she wore.

"Oh, dear: oh, Sir Godfrey! Oh, me!" said she.

"Saint Charity! What do you want? Holy Ragbag, what's the matter? Is everybody in my house going stark mad?" Here the Baron fell over the stool in the dark. "Give me my candle!" he roared. "Light my candle! What business have either of you to come here?"

"Please, sir, it's Miss Elaine I came for. Oh, me! I'll catch my death of cold. Her door shutting waked me up-stairs. Oh, dear! Where are we coming to?"

"You old mattrass!" said Sir Godfrey. Then he turned to his daughter. But this young lady had had a little time to gather her thoughts in. So she cut short all awkward questionings with excellent promptness.

"Papa!" she began, breathlessly. "There! I heard it again!"

"Heard it? What?" cried the Baron, his eyes starting.

"It waked me up-stairs, and I ran to get you in your room, and you——"

"It—it? What's it? What waked you?" broke in Sir Godfrey, his voice rising to a shriek.

"There it is again!" exclaimed Elaine, clasping her hands. "He's coming! I hear him. The Dragon! Oh!"

With this, she pretended to rush for the passage, where the squeaks of Mistletoe could be heard already growing distant in the house. Away bolted Sir Godfrey after her, shouting to Elaine in terror undisguised, "Lock your door! Lock your door!" as he fled up-stairs.

So there stood Miss Elaine alone, with the coast clear, and no danger from these two courageous guardians. Then came a knock from outside, and her heart bounded as she ran through the cellar and undid the door.

"You darling!" said Geoffrey, jumping in with legs all covered with snow. He left the door open wide, and had taken four or five kisses at the least before she could stop him. "The moon was out for a while," he continued, "and the snow stopped. So I came a long way round-about, that my tracks should not be seen. That's good strategy."

But this strange young lady said no word, and looked at him as if she were going to cry.

"Why, what's the matter, dear?" he asked.

"Oh, Geoffrey! I have been deceiving papa so."

"Pooh! It's not to be thought of."

"But I can't help thinking. I never supposed I could do so. And it comes so terribly easy. And I'm not a bit clever when I'm good. And—oh!" She covered her face and turned away from him.

"Stuff and nonsense!" Geoffrey broke out. "Do be reasonable. Here is a dragon. Isn't there?"

"Yes."

"And everybody wants to get rid of him?"

"Yes."

"And he's robbing your father?"

"Yes."

"So you're acting for your father's good?"

"Y—yes."

"Then——"

"Now, Geoffrey, all your talking doesn't hide the badness in the least bit."

She was silent again; then suddenly seemed greatly relieved. "I don't care," she declared. "Papa locked me up for a whole week, when all I wanted was to help him and everybody get rid of the Dragon. And I am too old to be treated so. And now I am just going to pretend there's a dragon when there's not. Oh, what's that?"

This time it was no sham. Faint and far from the direction of Oyster-le-Main came the roar of the Dragon of Wantley over fields and farms.



CHAPTER VIII

Contains a Dilemma with two simply egregious Horns.



"Run instantly into the house," said Geoffrey to Elaine, and he dragged out his sword.

But she stared at him, and nothing further.

"Or no. Stay here and see me kill him," the boy added, pridefully.

"Kill him!" said she, in amazement. "Do you suppose that papa, with all his experience, couldn't tell it was an imitation dragon? And you talk of strategy! I have thought much about to-night,—and, Geoffrey, you must do just the thing that I bid you, and nothing else. Promise."

"I think we'll hear first what your wisdom is," said he, shaking his head like the sage youth that he was.

"Promise!" she repeated, "else I go away at once, and leave you. Now! One—two—thrrr——"

"I promise!" he shouted.

"'Sh! Papa's window is just round the tower. Now, sir, you must go over yonder within those trees."

"Where?"

"There where the snow has dipped the branches low down. And leave me alone in the cellar with the Dragon."

"With the Dragon? Alone? I did not know you counted me a lunatic," replied Geoffrey. Then, after a look over the fields where the storm was swirling, he gave attention to the point of his sword.

"Where's your promise?" said she. "Will you break your word so soon?"

A big gust of wind flung the snow sharp against their faces.

"Did you expect——" began the young knight, and then said some words that I suppose gentlemen in those old times were more prone to use before ladies than they are to-day. Which shows the optimists are right.

Then, still distant, but not so distant, came another roar.

"Geoffrey!" Elaine said, laying a hand upon his arm; "indeed, you must hear me now, and make no delay with contrary notions. There is no danger for me. Look. He will first be by himself to clear the way of watchers. No one peeps out of windows when the Dragon's howling. Next, the rest will come and all go into papa's cellar for the wine. But we must get these others away, and that's for you." She paused.

"Well? Well?" he said.

"It will go thus: the passage shall hide me, and the door of it be shut. You'll watch over by the trees, and when you see all have come inside here, make some sort of noise at the edge of the wood."

"What sort of noise?"

"Oh,—not as if you suspected. Seem to be passing by. Play you are a villager going home late. When they hear that, they'll run away for fear of their secret. The Dragon will surely stay behind."

"Why will he stay behind? Why will they run away?"

"Dear Geoffrey, don't you see that if these men were to be seen in company with the Dragon by one who till now knew them as monks, where would their living be gone to? Of course, they will get themselves out of sight, and the Dragon will remain as a sort of human scarecrow. Then I'll come out from the passage-door."

"One would almost think you desired that villain to kill you," said Geoffrey. "No, indeed. I'll not consent to that part."

"How shall he kill me here?" Elaine replied. "Do you not see the Dragon of Wantley would have to carry a maiden away? He would not dare to put me to the sword. When I come, I shall speak three words to him. Before there is time for him to think what to do, you will hear me say (for you must have now run up from the wood) 'the legend has come true!' Then, when I tell him that, do you walk in ready with your sword to keep him polite. Oh, indeed," said the lady, with her eyes sparkling on Geoffrey, "we must keep his manners good for him. For I think he's one of those persons who might turn out very rude in a trying situation."

All this was far from pleasing to young Geoffrey. But Elaine showed him how no other way was to be found by which Sir Francis could be trapped red-handed and distant from help. While the knight was bending his brows down with trying to set his thoughts into some order that should work out a better device, a glare shone over the next hill against the falling flakes.

"Quick!" said Elaine.

She withdrew into the cellar on the instant, and the great door closed between them. Geoffrey stood looking at it very anxiously, and then walked backwards, keeping close to the walls, and so round the tower and into the court, whence he turned and ploughed as fast as he could through the deep drifts till he was inside the trees. "If they spy my steps," he thought, "it will seem as though some one of the house had gone in there to secure the door."

Once more the glare flashed against the swiftly-descending curtains of the storm. Slowly it approached, sometimes illuminating a tree-trunk for a moment, then suddenly gleaming on the white mounds where rocks lay deeply cloaked.

"He is pretty slow," said Geoffrey, shifting the leg he was leaning on.



A black mass moved into sight, and from it came spoutings of fire that showed dark, jagged wings heavily flapping. It walked a little and stopped; then walked again. Geoffrey could see a great snout and head rocking and turning. Dismal and unspeakable sounds proceeded from the creature as it made towards the cellar-door. After it had got close and leaned against the panels in a toppling, swaying fashion, came a noise of creaking and fumbling, and then the door rolled aside upon its hinges. Next, the blurred white ridge towards Oyster-le-Main was darkened with moving specks that came steadily near; and man by man of the Guild reached the open door crouching, whispered a word or two, and crept inside. They made no sound that could be heard above the hissing of the downward flakes and the wind that moaned always, but louder sometimes. Only Elaine, with her ear to the cold iron key-hole of the passage-door, could mark the clink of armour, and shivered as she stood in the dark. And now the cellar is full,—but not of gray gowns. The candle flames show little glistening sparks in the black coats of mail, and the sight of themselves cased in steel, and each bearing an empty keg, stirred a laughter among them. Then the kegs were set down without noise on the earthy floor among the bins. The Dragon was standing on his crooked scaly hind-legs; and to see the grim, changeless jaw and eyes brought a dead feeling around the heart. But the two bungling fore-paws moved upwards, shaking like a machine, and out of a slit in the hide came two white hands that lifted to one side the brown knarled mask of the crocodile. There was the black head of Sir Francis Almoign. "'Tis hot in there," he said; and with two fingers he slung the drops of sweat from his forehead.

"Wet thy whistle before we begin," said Hubert, filling a jug for him. Sir Francis took it in both hands, and then clutched it tightly as a sudden singing was set up out in the night.

"Come, take a wife, Come, take a wife, Ere thou learnest age's treasons!"

The tune came clear and jolly, cutting through the muffled noises of the tempest.

"Blood and death!" muttered Hubert.

Each figure had sprung into a stiff position of listening.

"Quit thy roving; Shalt by loving Not wax lean in stormy seasons. Ho! ho! oh,—ho! Not wax lean in——"

Here the strain snapped off short. Then a whining voice said, "Oh, I have fallen again! A curse on these roots. Lucifer fell only once, and 'twas enough for him. I have looked on the wine when it was red, and my dame Jeanie will know it soon, oh, soon! But my sober curse on these roots."

"That's nothing," said Hubert. "There's a band of Christmas singers has strolled into these parts to chant carols. One of them has stopped too long at the tavern."

"Do I see a light?" said the voice. "Help! Give me a light, and let me go home.

"Quit thy roving; Shalt by loving——"

"Shall I open his throat, that he may sing the next verse in heaven?" Hubert inquired.

"No, fool!" said Sir Francis. "Who knows if his brother sots are not behind him to wake the house? This is too dangerous to-night. Away with you, every one. Stoop low till ye are well among the fields, and then to Oyster-le-Main! I'll be Dragon for a while, and follow after."

Quickly catching up his keg, each man left the cellar like a shadow. Geoffrey, from the edge of the wood, saw them come out and dissolve away into the night. With the tube of the torch at his lips, Sir Francis blew a blast of fire out at the door, then covered his head once more with the grinning crocodile. He roared twice, and heard something creak behind him, so turned to see what had made it. There was Miss Elaine on the passage-steps. Her lips moved to speak, but for a short instant fear put a silence upon her that she found no voice to break. He, with a notion she was there for the sake of the legend, waved his great paws and trundled towards where she was standing.

"Do not forget to roar, sir," said the young lady, managing her voice so there was scarce any tremble to be heard in it.

At this the Dragon stood still.

"You perceive," she said to him, "after all, a dragon, like a mouse, comes to the trap."

"Not quite yet," cried Sir Francis, in a terrible voice, and rushed upon her, meaning death.

"The legend has come true!" she loudly said.

A gleaming shaft of steel whistled across the sight of Sir Francis.

"Halt there!" thundered Geoffrey, leaping between the two, and posing his sword for a lunge.

"My hour has come," Sir Francis thought. For he was cased in the stiff hide, and could do nothing in defence.

"Now shalt thou lick the earth with thy lying tongue," said Geoffrey.

A sneer came through the gaping teeth of the crocodile.

"Valiant, indeed!" the voice said. "Very valiant and knightly, oh son of Bertram of Poictiers! Frenchmen know when to be bold. Ha! ha!"

"Crawl out of that nut, thou maggot," answered Geoffrey, "and taste thy doom."

Here was a chance, the gift of a fool. The two white hands appeared and shifted the mask aside, letting them see a cunning hope on his face.

"Do not go further, sir," said Elaine. "It is for the good of us all that you abide where you are. As I shall explain."

"What is this, Elaine?" said Geoffrey.

"Your promise!" she answered, lifting a finger at him.

There was a dry crack from the crocodile's hide.

"Villain!" cried Geoffrey, seizing the half-extricated body by the throat. "Thy false skin is honester than thyself, and warned us. Back inside!"

The robber's eyes shrivelled to the size of a snake's, as, with no tenderness, the youth grappled with him still entangled, and with hands, feet, and knees drove him into his shell as a hasty traveller tramples his effects into a packing-case.

"See," said Elaine, "how pleasantly we two have you at our disposal. Shall the neighbours be called to have a sight of the Dragon?"

"What do you want with me?" said Sir Francis, quietly. For he was a philosopher.

"In the first place," answered Geoffrey, "know that thou art caught. And if I shall spare thee this night, it may well be they'll set thy carcase swinging on the gallows-tree to-morrow morning,—or, being Christmas, the day after."

"I can see my case without thy help," Sir Francis replied. "What next?"

At this, Elaine came to Geoffrey and they whispered together.



"Thy trade is done for," said the youth, at length. "There'll be no more monks of Oyster-le-Main, and no more Dragon of Wantley. But thou and the other curs may live, if ye so choose."

"Through what do I buy my choice?"

"Through a further exhibition of thine art. Thou must play Dragon to-night once again for the last time. This, that I may show thee captive to Sir Godfrey Disseisin."

"And in chains, I think," added Elaine. "There is one behind the post." It had belonged in the bear-pit during the lives of Orlando Crumb and Furioso Bun, two bears trapped expressly for the Baron near Roncevaux.

"After which?" inquired Sir Francis.

"Thou shalt go free, and I will claim this lady's hand from her father, who promised her to any man that brought the Dragon to him dead or alive."

"Papa shall be kept at a distance from you," said Elaine, "and will never suspect in this dimness, if you roar at him thoroughly."

"Then," continued Geoffrey, "I shall lead thee away as my spoil, and the people shall see the lizard-skin after a little while. But thou must journey far from Wantley, and never show face again."

"And go from Oyster-le-Main and the tithings?" exclaimed Sir Francis. "My house and my sustenance?"

"Sustain thyself elsewhere," said Geoffrey; "I care not how."

"No!" said Sir Francis. "I'll not do this."

"Then we call Sir Godfrey. The Baron will not love thee very much, seeing how well he loves his Burgundy thou hast drank. Thou gavest him sermons on cold spring-water. He'll remember that. I think thou'lt be soon hanging. So choose."

The Knight of the Voracious Stomach was silent.

"This is a pretty scheme thou hast," he presently said. "And not thine own. She has taught thee this wit, I'll be bound. Mated to her, thou'lt prosper, I fear."

"Come, thy choice," said Geoffrey, sternly.

A sour smile moved the lips of Sir Francis. "Well," he said, "it has been good while it lasted. Yes, I consent. Our interests lie together. See how Necessity is the mother of Friendship, also."

The mask was drawn over his face, and they wound the chain about the great body.

"There must be sounds of fighting," said Elaine. "Make them when I am gone into the house."

"If I had strangled thee in thy prison, which was in my mind," said the voice of the hidden speaker, "this folly we—but there. Let it go, and begin."

Then they fell to making a wonderful disturbance. The Dragon's voice was lifted in horrid howlings; and the young knight continually bawled with all his lungs. They chased as children in a game do: forward, back, and across to nowhere, knocking the barrels, clanking and clashing, up between the rows and around corners; and the dry earth was ground under their feet and swept from the floor upward in a fine floating yellow powder that they sucked down into their windpipes, while still they hustled and jangled and banged and coughed and grew dripping wet, so the dust and the water mingled and ran black streams along their bodies from the neck downwards, tickling their backs and stomachs mightily. When the breath was no longer inside them, they stopped to listen.

The house was stone still, and no noise came, save always the wind's same cheerless blowing.

"How much more of this before they will awaken?" exclaimed Geoffrey, in indignation. "'Tis a scandal people should sleep so."

"They are saying their prayers," said Sir Francis.

"It is a pity thou art such a miscreant," Geoffrey said, heartily; "otherwise I could sweat myself into a good-humour with thee."

But Sir Francis replied with coldness, "It is easy for the upper hand to laugh."

"We must at it again," said Geoffrey; "and this time I will let them hear thou art conquered." The din and hubbub recommenced. And Mistletoe could hear it where she quaked inside her closet holding the door with both hands. And the Baron could hear it. He was locked in the bath-room, dreadfully sorry he had not gone to the Crusade. Quite unknowingly in his alarm he had laid hold of a cord that set going the shower-bath; but he gave no heed at all to this trifle. And every man and woman in the house heard the riot, from the scullion up through the cook to Popham, who had unstrapped his calves before retiring, so that now his lean shanks knocked together like hockey-sticks. Little Whelpdale, freezing in his shirt-tail under the bed, was crying piteously upon all Saints to forget about his sins and deliver him. Only Miss Elaine standing in her room listened with calm; and she with not much, being on the threshold of a chance that might turn untoward so readily. Presently a victorious shouting came from far down through the dark.

"He is mine!" the voice bellowed. "I have laid him low. The Dragon is taken." At this she hastened to summon Sir Godfrey.

"Why, where can he be?" she exclaimed, stopping in astonishment at his room, empty and the door open wide.

Down in the cellar the voice continued to call on all people to come and see the Dragon of Wantley. Also Elaine heard a splashing and dripping that sounded in the bath-room. So she ran to the door and knocked.

"You can't come in!" said the Baron angrily.

"Papa! They've caught the Dragon. Oh why are you taking your bath at such a time?"

"Taking my grandmother!" Sir Godfrey retorted in great dudgeon. But he let the rope go, and the shower stopped running. "Go to your room," he added. "I told you to lock your door. This Dragon——"

"But he's caught, papa," cried Elaine through the key-hole. "Don't you hear me? Geoff——somebody has got him."

"How now?" said the Baron, unlocking the door and peering out. "What's all this?"

His dressing-gown was extremely damp, for stray spouts from the shower-bath had squirted over him. Fortunately, the breast-plate underneath had kept him dry as far as it went.

"Hum," he said, after he had listened to the voice in the cellar. "This is something to be cautious over."

"If the people of this house do not come soon to bear witness of my conquest," said the voice in tones of thunder, "I'll lead this Dragon through every chamber of it myself."

"Damnum absque injuria!" shrieked Sir Godfrey, and uttered much more horrible language entirely unfit for general use. "What the Jeofailes does the varlet mean by threatening an Englishman in his own house? I should like to know who lives here? I should like to know who I am?"

The Baron flew down the entry in a rage. He ran to his bedside and pulled his sword from under the pillows where he always kept it at night with his sun-dial.



"We shall see who is master of this house," he said. "I am not going to—does he suppose anybody that pleases can come carting their dragons through my premises? Get up! Get up! Every one!" he shouted, hurrying along the hall with the sword in his right hand and a lantern in his left. His slippers were only half on, so they made a slithering and slapping over the floor; and his speed was such that the quilted red dressing-gown filled with the wind and spread behind him till he looked like a huge new sort of bird or an eccentric balloon. Up and down in all quarters of the house went Sir Godfrey, pounding against every shut door. Out they came. Mistletoe from her closet, squeaking. Whelpdale from under his bed. The Baron allowed him time to put on a pair of breeches wrong side out. The cook came, and you could hear her panting all the way down from the attic. Out came the nine house-maids with hair in curl-papers. The seven footmen followed. Meeson and Welsby had forgotten their wigs. The coachman and grooms and stable-boys came in horse-blankets and boots. And last in the procession, old Popham, one calf securely strapped on, and the other dangling disgracefully. Breathless they huddled behind the Baron, who strode to the cellar, where he flung the door open. Over in a corner was a hideous monster, and every man fell against his neighbour and shrieked. At which the monster roared most alarmingly, and all fell together again. Young Geoffrey stood in the middle of the cellar, and said not a word. One end of a chain was in his hand, and he waited mighty stiff for the Baron to speak. But when he saw Miss Elaine come stealing in after the rest so quiet and with her eyes fixed upon him, his own eyes shone wonderfully.

At the sight of the Dragon, Sir Godfrey forgot his late excitement, and muttered "Bless my soul!" Then he stared at the beast for some time.

"Can—can't he do anything?" he inquired.

"No," said Geoffrey shortly; "he can't."

"Not fly up at one, for instance?"

"I have broken his wing," replied the youth.

"I—I'd like to look at him. Never saw one before," said the Baron; and he took two steps. Then gingerly he moved another step.

"Take care!" Geoffrey cried, with rapid alarm.

The monster moved, and from his nostrils (as it seemed) shot a plume of flame.

Popham clutched the cook, and the nine house-maids sank instantly into the arms of the seven footmen without the slightest regard to how unsatisfactorily nine goes into seven.

"Good heavens!" said the Baron, getting behind a hogshead, "what a brute!"

"Perhaps it might be useful if I excommunicated him," said the Rev. Hucbald, who had come in rather late, with his clerical frock-coat buttoned over his pyjamas.

"Pooh!" said the Baron. "As if he'd care for that."

"Very few men can handle a dragon," said Geoffrey, unconcernedly, and stroked his upper lip, where a kindly-disposed person might see there was going to be a moustache some day.

"I don't know exactly what you mean to imply by that, young man," said the Baron, coming out from behind the hogshead and puffing somewhat pompously.

"Why, zounds!" he exclaimed, "I left you locked up this afternoon, and securely. How came you here?"

Geoffrey coughed, for it was an awkward inquiry.

"Answer me without so much throat-clearing," said the Baron.

"I'll clear my throat as it pleases me," replied Geoffrey hotly. "How I came here is no affair of yours that I can see. But ask Father Anselm himself, and he will tell you." This was a happy thought, and the youth threw a look at the Dragon, who nodded slightly. "I have a question to ask you, sir," Geoffrey continued, taking a tone and manner more polite. Then he pointed to the Dragon with his sword, and was silent.

"Well?" said Sir Godfrey, "don't keep me waiting."

"I fear your memory's short, sir. By your word proclaimed this morning the man who brought you this Dragon should have your daughter to wife if she—if she——"

"Ha!" said the Baron. "To be sure. Though it was hasty. Hum! Had I foreseen the matter would be so immediately settled—she's a great prize for any lad—and you're not hurt either. One should be hurt for such a reward. You seem entirely sound of limb and without a scratch. A great prize."

"There's the Dragon," replied Geoffrey, "and here am I."

Now Sir Godfrey was an honourable man. When he once had given his word, you could hold him to it. That is very uncommon to-day, particularly in the matter of contracts. He gathered his dressing-gown about him, and looked every inch a parent. "Elaine," he said, "my dear?"

"Oh, papa!" murmured that young woman in a die-away voice.

Geoffrey had just time to see the look in her brown eye as she turned her head away. And his senses reeled blissfully, and his brain blew out like a candle, and he ceased to be a man who could utter speech. He stood stock-still with his gaze fixed upon Elaine. The nine house-maids looked at the young couple with many sympathetic though respectful sighings, and the seven footmen looked comprehensively at the nine house-maids.

Sir Godfrey smiled, and very kindly. "Ah, well," he said, "once I—but tush! You're a brave lad, and I knew your father well. I'll consent, of course. But if you don't mind, I'll give you rather a quick blessing this evening. 'Tis growing colder. Come here, Elaine. Come here, sir. There! Now, I hate delay in these matters. You shall be married to-morrow. Hey? What? You don't object, I suppose? Then why did you jump? To-morrow, Christmas Day, and every church-bell in the county shall ring three times more than usual. Once for the holy Feast, and may the Lord bless it always! and once for my girl's wedding. And once for the death and destruction of the Dragon of Wantley."

"Hurrah!" said the united household.

"We'll have a nuptials that shall be the talk of our grandchildren's children, and after them. We'll have all the people to see. And we'll build the biggest pile of fagots that can be cut from my timber, and the Dragon shall be chained on the top of it, and we'll cremate him like an Ancient,—only alive! We'll cremate the monster alive!"

Elaine jumped. Geoffrey jumped. The chain round the Dragon loudly clanked.

"Why—do you not find this a pleasant plan?" asked the Baron, surprised.

"It seems to me, sir," stuttered Geoffrey, beating his brains for every next word, "it seems to me a monstrous pity to destroy this Dragon so. He is a rare curiosity."

"Did you expect me to clap him in a box-stall and feed him?" inquired the Baron with scorn.

"Why, no, sir. But since it is I who have tracked, stalked, and taken him with the help of no other huntsman," said Geoffrey, "I make bold to think the laws of sport vest the title to him in me."

"No such thing," said Sir Godfrey. "You have captured him in my cellar. I know a little law, I hope."

"The law about wild beasts in Poictiers——" Geoffrey began.

"What care I for your knavish and perverted foreign legalities over the sea?" snorted Sir Godfrey. "This is England. And our Common Law says you have trespassed."

"My dear sir," said Geoffrey, "this wild beast came into your premises after I had marked him."

"Don't dear sir me!" shouted the Baron. "Will you hear the law for what I say? I tell you this Dragon's my dragon. Don't I remember how trespass was brought against Ralph de Coventry, over in Warwickshire? Who did no more than you have done. And they held him. And there it was but a little pheasant his hawk had chased into another's warren—and you've chased a dragon, so the offence is greater."

"But if—" remonstrated the youth, "if a fox——"

"Fox me no foxes! Here is the case of Ralph de Coventry," replied Sir Godfrey, looking learned, and seating himself on a barrel of beer. "Ralph pleaded before the Judge saying, 'et nous lessamus nostre faucon voler a luy, et il le pursuy en le garrein,'—'tis just your position, only 'twas you that pursued and not your falcon, which does not in the least distinguish the cases."

"But," said Geoffrey again, "the Dragon started not on your premises."

"No matter for that; for you have pursued him into my warren, that is, my cellar, my enclosed cellar, where you had no business to be. And the Court told Ralph no matter 'que le feisant leva hors de le garrein, vostre faucon luy pursuy en le garrein.' So there's good sound English law, and none of your foppish outlandishries in Latin," finished the Baron, vastly delighted at being able to display the little learning that he had. For you see, very few gentlemen in those benighted days knew how to speak the beautiful language of the law so fluently as that.

"And besides," continued Sir Godfrey suddenly, "there is a contract."

"What contract?" asked Geoffrey.

"A good and valid one. When I said this morning that I would give my daughter to the man who brought me the Dragon alive or dead, did I say I would give him the Dragon too? So choose which you will take, for both you cannot have."

At this Elaine turned pale as death, and Geoffrey stood dumb.

Had anybody looked at the Dragon, it was easy to see the beast was much agitated.

"Choose!" said Sir Godfrey. "'Tis getting too cold to stay here. What? You hesitate between my daughter and a miserable reptile? I thought the lads of France were more gallant. Come, sir! which shall it be? The lady or the Dragon?"

"Well," said Geoffrey, and his blood and heart stood still (and so did Elaine's, and so did another person's), "I—I—think I will choose the l—lady."

"Hurrah!" cheered the household once more.

"Oh, Lord!" said the Dragon, but nobody heard him.

"Indeed!" observed Sir Godfrey. "And now we'll chain him in my bear-pit till morning, and at noon he shall be burned alive by the blazing fagots. Let us get some sleep now."

The cloud of slimly-clad domestics departed with slow steps, and many a look of fear cast backward at the captured monster.

"This Dragon, sir," said Geoffrey, wondering at his own voice, "will die of thirst in that pit. Bethink you how deep is his habit of drinking."

"Ha! I have often bethought me," retorted Sir Godfrey, rolling his eyes over the empty barrels. "But here! I am a man of some heart, I hope."

He seized up a bucket and ran to the hogshead containing his daughter's native cowslip wine.

"There!" he observed when the bucket was pretty well filled. "Put that in to moisten his last hours."

Then the Baron led the way round the Manor to the court-yard where the bear-pit was. His daughter kept pace with him not easily, for the excellent gentleman desired to be a decent distance away from the Dragon, whom young Geoffrey dragged along in the rear.



CHAPTER IX

Leaues much Room for guessing about Ch. X



As they proceeded towards the bear-pit, having some distance to go, good-humour and benevolence began to rise up in the heart of Sir Godfrey.

"This is a great thing!" he said to Miss Elaine. "Ha! an important and joyful occurrence. The news of it will fly far."

"Yes," the young lady replied, but without enthusiasm. "The cattle will be safe now."

"The cattle, child! my Burgundy! Think of that!"

"Yes, papa."

"The people will come," continued the Baron, "from all sides to-morrow—why, it's to-morrow now!" he cried. "From all sides they will come to my house to see my Dragon. And I shall permit them to see him. They shall see him cooked alive, if they wish. It is a very proper curiosity. The brute had a wide reputation."

To hear himself spoken of in the past tense, as we speak of the dead, was not pleasant to Sir Francis, walking behind Geoffrey on all fours.

"I shall send for Father Anselm and his monks," the Baron went on.

Hearing this Geoffrey started.

"What need have we of them, sir?" he inquired. To send for Father Anselm! It was getting worse and worse.

"Need of Father Anselm?" repeated Sir Godfrey. "Of course I shall need him. I want the parson to tell me how he came to change his mind and let you out."

"Oh, to be sure," said Geoffrey, mechanically. His thoughts were reeling helplessly together, with no one thing uppermost.

"Not that I disapprove it. I have changed my own mind upon occasions. But 'twas sudden, after his bundle of sagacity about Crusades and visions of my ancestor and what not over there in the morning. Ha! ha! These clericals are no more consistent than another person. I'll never let the Father forget this." And the Baron chuckled. "Besides," he said, "'tis suitable that these monks should be present at the burning. This Dragon was a curse, and curses are somewhat of a church matter."

"True," said Geoffrey, for lack of a better reply.

"Why, bless my soul!" shouted the Baron, suddenly wheeling round to Elaine at his side, so that the cowslip wine splashed out of the bucket he carried, "it's my girl's wedding-day too! I had clean forgot. Bless my soul!"

"Y—yes, papa," faltered Elaine.

"And you, young fellow!" her father called out to Geoffrey with lusty heartiness. "You're a lucky rogue, sir."

"Yes, sir," said Geoffrey, but not gayly. He was wondering how it felt to be going mad. Amid his whirling thoughts burned the one longing to hide Elaine safe in his arms and tell her it would all come right somehow. A silence fell on the group as they walked. Even to the Baron, who was not a close observer, the present reticence of these two newly-betrothed lovers was apparent. He looked from one to the other, but in the face of neither could he see beaming any of the soft transports which he considered were traditionally appropriate to the hour. "Umph!" he exclaimed; "it was never like this in my day." Then his thoughts went back some forty years, and his eyes mellowed from within.

"We'll cook the Dragon first," continued the old gentleman, "and then, sir, you and my girl shall be married. Ha! ha! a great day for Wantley!" The Baron swung his bucket, and another jet of its contents slid out. He was growing more and more delighted with himself and his daughter and her lover and everybody in the world. "And you're a stout rogue, too, sir," he said. "Built near as well as an Englishman, I think. And that's an excellent thing in a husband."

The Baron continued to talk, now and then almost falling in the snow, but not permitting such slight mishaps to interrupt his discourse, which was addressed to nobody and had a general nature, touching upon dragons, marriages, Crusades, and Burgundy. Could he have seen Geoffrey's more and more woe-begone and distracted expression, he would have concluded his future son-in-law was suffering from some sudden and momentous bodily ill.

The young man drew near the Dragon. "What shall we do?" he said in a whisper. "Can I steal the keys of the pit? Can we say the Dragon escaped?" The words came in nervous haste, wholly unlike the bold deliberateness with which the youth usually spoke. It was plain he was at the end of his wits.

"Why, what ails thee?" inquired Sir Francis in a calm and unmoved voice. "This is a simple matter."

His tone was so quiet that Geoffrey stared in amazement.

"But yonder pit!" he said. "We are ruined!"

"Not at all," Sir Francis replied. "Truly thou art a deep thinker! First a woman and now thine enemy has to assist thy distress."

He put so much hatred and scorn into his tones that Geoffrey flamed up. "Take care!" he muttered angrily.

"That's right!" the prisoner said, laughing dryly. "Draw thy sword and split our secret open. It will be a fine wedding-day thou'lt have then. Our way out of this is plain enough. Did not the Baron say that Father Anselm was to be present at the burning? He shall be present."

"Yes," said the youth. "But how to get out of the pit? And how can there be a dragon to burn if thou art to be Father Anselm? And how——" he stopped.

"I am full of pity for thy brains," said Sir Francis.

"Here's the pit!" said the voice of Sir Godfrey. "Bring him along."

"Hark!" said Sir Francis to Geoffrey. "Thou must go to Oyster-le-Main with a message. Darest thou go alone?"

"If I dare?" retorted Geoffrey, proudly.

"It is well. Come to the pit when the Baron is safe in the house."

Now they were at the iron door. Here the ground was on a level with the bottom of the pit, but sloped steeply up to the top of its walls elsewhere, so that one could look down inside. The Baron unlocked the door and entered with his cowslip wine, which (not being a very potent decoction) began to be covered with threads of ice as soon as it was set down. The night was growing more bitter as its frosty hours wore on; for the storm was departed, and the wind fallen to silence, and the immense sky clean and cold with the shivering glitter of the stars.

Then Geoffrey led the Dragon into the pit. This was a rude and desolate hole, and its furniture of that extreme simplicity common to bear-pits in those barbarous times. From the middle of the stone floor rose the trunk of a tree, ragged with lopped boughs and at its top forking into sundry limbs possible to sit among. An iron trough was there near a heap of stale greasy straw, and both were shapeless white lumps beneath the snow. The chiselled and cemented walls rose round in a circle and showed no crevice for the nails of either man or bear to climb by. Many times had Orlando Crumb and Furioso Bun observed this with sadness, and now Sir Francis observed it also. He took into his chest a big swallow of air, and drove it out again between his teeth with a weary hissing.

"I will return at once," Geoffrey whispered as he was leaving.

Then the door was shut to, and Sir Francis heard the lock grinding as the key was turned. Then he heard the Baron speaking to Geoffrey.

"I shall take this key away," he said; "there's no telling what wandering fool might let the monster out. And now there's but little time before dawn. Elaine, child, go to your bed. This excitement has plainly tired you. I cannot have my girl look like that when she's a bride to-day. And you too, sir," he added, surveying Geoffrey, "look a trifle out of sorts. Well, I am not surprised. A dragon is no joke. Come to my study." And he took Geoffrey's arm.

"Oh, no!" said the youth. "I cannot. I—I must change my dress."

"Pooh, sir! I shall send to the tavern for your kit. Come to my study. You are pale. We'll have a little something hot. Aha! Something hot!"

"But I think——" Geoffrey began.

"Tush!" said the Baron. "You shall help me with the wedding invitations."



"Sir!" said Geoffrey haughtily, "I know nothing of writing and such low habits."

"Why no more do I, of course," replied Sir Godfrey; "nor would I suspect you or any good gentleman of the practice, though I have made my mark upon an indenture in the presence of witnesses."

"A man may do that with propriety," assented the youth. "But I cannot come with you now, sir. 'Tis not possible."

"But I say that you shall!" cried the Baron in high good-humour. "I can mull Malvoisie famously, and will presently do so for you. 'Tis to help me seal the invitations that I want you. My Chaplain shall write them. Come."

He locked Geoffrey's arm in his own, and strode quickly forward. Feeling himself dragged away, Geoffrey turned his head despairingly back towards the pit.

"Oh, he's safe enough in there," said Sir Godfrey. "No need to watch him."

Sir Francis had listened to this conversation with rising dismay. And now he quickly threw off the crocodile hide and climbed up the tree as the bears had often done before him. It came almost to a level with the wall's rim, but the radius was too great a distance for jumping.

"I should break my leg," he said, and came down the tree again, as the bears had likewise often descended.

The others were now inside the house. Elaine with a sinking heart retired to her room, and her father after summoning the Rev. Hucbald took Geoffrey into his study. The Chaplain followed with a bunch of goose-quills and a large ink-horn, and seated himself at a table, while the Baron mixed some savoury stuff, going down his private staircase into the buttery to get the spice and honey necessary.

"Here's to the health of all, and luck to-day," said the Baron; and Geoffrey would have been quite happy if an earthquake had come and altered all plans for the morning. Still he went through the form of clinking goblets. But his heart ached, and his eyes grew hot as he sat dismal and lonely away from his girl.

"Whom shall we ask to the wedding?" queried the Rev. Hucbald, rubbing his hands and looking at the pitcher in which Sir Godfrey had mixed the beverage.

"Ask the whole county," said Sir Godfrey. "The more the merrier. My boy Roland will be here to-morrow. He'll find his sister has got ahead of him. Have some," he added, holding the pitcher to the Rev. Hucbald.

"I do believe I will take just a little sip," returned the divine. "Thanks! ah—most delicious, Baron! A marriage on Christmas Day," he added, "is—ahem!—highly irregular. But under the unusual, indeed the truly remarkable, circumstances, I make no doubt that the Pope——"

"Drat him!" said Sir Godfrey; at which the Chaplain smiled reproachfully, and shook a long transparent taper finger at his patron in a very playful manner, saying, "Baron! now, Baron!"

"My boy Roland's learning to be a knight over at my uncle Mortmain's," continued Sir Godfrey, pouring Geoffrey another goblet. "You'll like him."

But Geoffrey's thoughts were breeding more anxiety in him every moment.

"I'll get the sealing-wax," observed the Baron, and went to a cabinet.

"This room is stifling," cried Geoffrey. "I shall burst soon, I think."

"It's my mulled Malvoisie you're not accustomed to," Sir Godfrey said, as he rummaged in the cabinet. "Open the window and get some fresh air, my lad. Now where the deuce is my family seal?"

As Geoffrey opened the window, a soft piece of snow flew through the air and dropped lightly on his foot. He looked quickly and perceived a man's shadow jutting into the moonlight from an angle in the wall. Immediately he plunged out through the casement, which was not very high.

"Merciful powers!" said the Rev. Hucbald, letting fall his quill and spoiling the first invitation, "what an impulsive young man! Why, he has run clean round the corner."

"'Tis all my Malvoisie," said the Baron, hugely delighted, and hurrying to the window. "Come back when you're sober!" he shouted after Geoffrey with much mirth. Then he shut the window.

"These French heads never can weather English brews," he remarked to the Chaplain. "But I'll train the boy in time. He is a rare good lad. Now, to work."

Out in the snow, Geoffrey with his sword drawn came upon Hubert.

"Thou mayest sheathe that knife," said the latter.

"And be thy quarry?" retorted Geoffrey.

"I have come too late for that!" Hubert answered.

"Thou hast been to the bear-pit, then?"

"Oh, aye!"

"There's big quarry there!" observed Geoffrey, tauntingly. "Quite a royal bird."

"So royal the male hawk could not bring it down by himself, I hear," Hubert replied. "Nay, there's no use in waxing wroth, friend! My death now would clap thee in a tighter puzzle than thou art in already—and I should be able to laugh down at thee from a better world," he added, mimicking the priestly cadence, and looking at Geoffrey half fierce and half laughing.

He was but an apprentice at robbery and violence, and in the bottom of his heart, where some honesty still was, he liked Geoffrey well. "Time presses," he continued. "I must go. One thing thou must do. Let not that pit be opened till the monks of Oyster-le-Main come here. We shall come before noon."

"I do not understand," said Geoffrey.



"That's unimportant," answered Hubert. "Only play thy part. 'Tis a simple thing to keep a door shut. Fail, and the whole of us are undone. Farewell."

"Nay, this is some foul trick," Geoffrey declared, and laid his hand on Hubert.

But the other shook his head sadly. "Dost suppose," he said, "that we should have abstained from any trick that's known to the accumulated wisdom of man? Our sport is up."

"'Tis true," Geoffrey said, musingly, "we hold all of you in the hollow of one hand."

"Thou canst make a present of us to the hangman in twenty minutes if thou choosest," said Hubert.

"Though 'twould put me in quite as evil case."

"Ho! what's the loss of a woman compared with death?" Hubert exclaimed.

"Thou'lt know some day," the young knight said, eying Hubert with a certain pity; "that is, if ever thou art lucky to love truly."

"And is it so much as that?" murmured Hubert wistfully. "'Twas good fortune for thee and thy sweetheart I did not return to look for my master while he was being taken to the pit," he continued; "we could have stopped all your mouths till the Day of Judgment at least."

"Wouldst thou have slain a girl?" asked Geoffrey, stepping back.

"Not I, indeed! But for my master I would not be so sure. And he says I'll come as far as that in time," added the apprentice with a shade of bitterness.

"Thou art a singular villain," said Geoffrey, "and wonderfully frank spoken."

"And so thou'rt to be married?" Hubert said gently.

"By this next noon, if all goes well!" exclaimed the lover with ardour.

"Heigho!" sighed Hubert, turning to go, "'twill be a merry Christmas for somebody."

"Give me thy hand," cried Geoffrey, feeling universally hearty.

"No," replied the freebooter; "what meaning would there be in that? I would sever thy jugular vein in a moment if that would mend the broken fortunes of my chief. Farewell, however. Good luck attend thee."

The eyes of both young men met, and without unkindness in them.

"But I am satisfied with my calling," Hubert asserted, repudiating some thought that he imagined was lurking in Geoffrey's look. "Quite content! It's very dull to be respectable. Look! the dawn will discover us."

"But this plan?" cried Geoffrey, hastening after him; "I know nothing."

"Thou needest know nothing. Keep the door of the pit shut. Farewell."

And Geoffrey found himself watching the black form of Hubert dwindle against the white rises of the ground. He walked towards the tavern in miserable uncertainty, for the brief gust of elation had passed from his heart. Then he returned irresolute, and looked into the pit. There was Sir Francis, dressed in the crocodile.

"Come in, come in, young fellow! Ha! ha! how's thy head?" The Baron was at the window, calling out and beckoning with vigour.

Geoffrey returned to the study. There was no help for it.

"We have written fifty-nine already!" said the Rev. Hucbald.

But the youth cast a dull eye upon the growing heap, and sealed them very badly. What pleasure was it to send out invitations to his own wedding that might never be coming off?

As for Hubert out in the night, he walked slowly through the wide white country. And as he went across the cold fields and saw how the stars were paling out, and cast long looks at the moon setting across the smooth snow, the lad's eyes filled so that the moon twinkled and shot rays askew in his sight. He thought how the good times of Oyster-le-Main were ended, and he thought of Miss Elaine so far beyond the reach of such as he, and it seemed to him that he was outside the comfortable world.



CHAPTER X

The Great White Christmas at Wantley.



Now are all the people long awake and out of their beds. Wantley Manor is stirring busily in each quarter of the house and court, and the whole county likewise is agog. By seven o'clock this morning it was noised in every thatched cottage and in every gabled hall that the great Dragon had been captured. Some said by Saint George in person, who appeared riding upon a miraculous white horse and speaking a tongue that nobody could understand, wherefore it was held to be the language common in Paradise. Some declared Saint George had nothing to do with it, and that this was the pious achievement of Father Anselm. Others were sure Miss Elaine had fulfilled the legend and conquered the monster entirely by herself. One or two, hearing the event had taken place in Sir Godfrey's wine-cellar, said they thought the Baron had done it,—and were immediately set down as persons of unsound mind. But nobody mentioned Geoffrey at all, until the Baron's invitations, requesting the honour of various people's presence at the marriage of his daughter Elaine to that young man, were received; and that was about ten o'clock, the ceremony being named for twelve that day in the family chapel. Sir Godfrey intended the burning of the Dragon to take place not one minute later than half-past eleven. Accordingly, besides the invitation to the chapel, all friends and neighbours whose position in the county or whose intimacy with the family entitled them to a recognition less formal and more personal, received a second card which ran as follows: "Sir Godfrey Disseisin at home Wednesday morning, December the twenty-fifth, from half after eleven until the following day. Dancing; also a Dragon will be roasted. R. S. V. P." The Disseisin crest with its spirited motto, "Saute qui peult," originated by the venerable Primer Disseisin, followed by his son Tortious Disseisin, and borne with so much renown in and out of a hundred battles by a thousand subsequent Disseisins, ornamented the top left-hand corner.

"I think we shall have but few refusals," said the Rev. Hucbald to Sir Godfrey. "Not many will be prevented by previous engagements, I opine." And the Chaplain smiled benignly, rubbing his hands. He had published the banns of matrimony three times in a lump before breakfast. "Which is rather unusual," he said; "but under the circumstances we shall easily obtain a dispensation."

"In providing such an entertainment for the county as this will be," remarked the Baron, "I feel I have performed my duty towards society for some time to come. No one has had a dragon at a private house before me, I believe."

"Oh, surely not," simpered the sleek Hucbald. "Not even Lady Jumping Jack."

"Fiddle!" grunted the Baron. "She indeed! Fandangoes!"

"She's very pious," protested the Rev. Hucbald, whom the lady sometimes asked to fish lunches in Lent.

"Fandangoes!" repeated the Baron. He had once known her exceedingly well, but she pursued variety at all expense, even his. As for refusals, the Chaplain was quite right. There were none. Nobody had a previous engagement—or kept it, if they had.

"Good gracious, Rupert!" (or Cecil, or Chandos, as it might be,) each dame in the county had exclaimed to her lord on opening the envelope brought by private hand from Wantley, "we're asked to the Disseisins to see a dragon,—and his daughter married."

"By heaven, Muriel, we'll go!" the gentleman invariably replied, under the impression that Elaine was to marry the Dragon, which would be a show worth seeing. The answers came flying back to Wantley every minute or two, most of them written in such haste that you could only guess they were acceptances. And those individuals who lived so far away across the county that the invitations reached them too late to be answered, immediately rang every bell in the house and ordered the carriage in frantic tones.

Of course nobody kept any engagement. Sir Guy Vol-au-Vent (and none but a most abandoned desperado or advanced thinker would be willing to do such a thing on Christmas) had accepted an invitation to an ambush at three for the slaying of Sir Percy de Resistance. But the ambush was put off till a more convenient day. Sir Thomas de Brie had been going to spend his Christmas at a cock-fight in the Count de Gorgonzola's barn. But he remarked to his man Edward, who brought the trap to the door, that the Count de Gorgonzola might go —— Never mind what he remarked. It was not nice; though oddly enough it was exactly the same remark that the Count had made about Sir Thomas on telling his own man James to drive to Wantley and drop the cock-fight. All these gentlemen, as soon as they heard the great news, started for the Manor with the utmost speed.



Nor was it the quality alone who were so unanimous in their feelings. The Tenantry (to whom Sir Godfrey had extended a very hospitable bidding to come and they should find standing-room and good meat and beer in the court-yard) went nearly mad. From every quarter of the horizon they came plunging and ploughing along. The sun blazed down out of a sky whence a universal radiance seemed to beat upon the blinding white. Could you have mounted up bird-fashion over the country, you would have seen the Manor like the centre of some great wheel, with narrow tracks pointing in to it from the invisible rim of a circle, paths wide and narrow, converging at the gate, trodden across the new snow from anywhere and everywhere; and moving along these like ants, all the inhabitants for miles around. And through the wide splendour of winter no wind blowing, but the sound of chiming bells far and near, clear frozen drops of music in the brittle air.

Old Gaffer Piers, the ploughman, stumped along, "pretty well for eighty, thanky," as he somewhat snappishly answered to the neighbours who out-walked him on the road. They would get there first.

"Wonderful old man," they said as they went on their way, and quickly resumed their speculations upon the Dragon's capture. Farmer John Stiles came driving his ox-team and snuffling, for it was pretty cold, and his handkerchief at home. Upon his wagon on every part, like swallows, hung as many of his relations as could get on. His mother, who had been Lucy Baker, and grandmother Cecilia Kempe, and a litter of cousin Thorpes. But his step-father Lewis Gay and the children of the half-blood were not asked to ride; farmer Stiles had bitterly resented the second marriage. This family knew all the particulars concerning the Dragon, for they had them from the cook's second cousin who was courting Bridget Stiles. They knew how Saint George had waked Father Anselm up and put him on a white horse, and how the Abbot had thus been able to catch the Dragon by his tail in the air just as he was flying away with Miss Elaine, and how at that the white horse had turned into a young man who had been bewitched by the Dragon, and was going to marry Miss Elaine immediately.

On the front steps, shaking hands with each person who came, was Sir Godfrey. He had dressed himself excellently for the occasion; something between a heavy father and an old beau, with a beautiful part down the back of his head where the hair was. Geoffrey stood beside him.

"My son-in-law that's to be," Sir Godfrey would say. And the gentry welcomed the young man, while the tenants bobbed him respectful salutations.

"You're one of us. Glad to know you," said Sir Thomas de Brie, surveying the lad with approval.

Lady Jumping Jack held his hand for a vanishing moment you could hardly make sure of. "I had made up my mind to hate you for robbing me of my dearest girl," she said, smiling gayly, and fixing him with her odd-looking eyes. "But I see we're to be friends." Then she murmured a choice nothing to the Baron, who snarled politely.

"Don't let her play you," said he to Geoffrey when the lady had moved on. And he tapped the youth's shoulder familiarly.

"Oh, I've been through all that sort of thing over in Poictiers," Geoffrey answered with indifference.

"You're a rogue, sir, as I've told you before. Ha! Uncle Mortmain, how d'ye do? Yes, this is Geoffrey. Where's my boy Roland? Coming, is he? Well, he had better look sharp. It's after eleven, and I'll wait for nobody. How d'ye do, John Stiles? That bull you sold me 's costing thirty shillings a year in fences. You'll find something ready down by those tables, I think."

Hark to that roar! The crowd jostled together in the court-yard, for it sounded terribly close.

"The Dragon's quite safe in the pit, good people," shouted Sir Godfrey. "A few more minutes and you'll all see him."

The old gentleman continued welcoming the new arrivals, chatting heartily, with a joke for this one and a kind inquiry for the other. But wretched Geoffrey! So the Dragon was to be seen in a few minutes! And where were the monks of Oyster-le-Main? Still, a bold face must be kept. He was thankful that Elaine, after the custom of brides, was invisible. The youth's left hand rested upon the hilt of his sword; he was in rich attire, and the curly hair that surrounded his forehead had been carefully groomed. Half-way up the stone steps as he stood, his blue eyes watching keenly for the monks, he was a figure that made many a humble nymph turn tender glances upon him. Old Piers, the ploughman, remained beside a barrel of running ale and drank his health all day. For he was a wonderful old man.

Hither and thither the domestics scurried swiftly, making preparations. Some were cooking rare pasties of grouse and ptarmigan, goslings and dough-birds; some were setting great tables in-doors and out; and some were piling fagots for the Dragon's funeral pyre. Popham, with magnificent solemnity and a pair of new calves, gave orders to Meeson and Welsby, and kept little Whelpdale panting for breath with errands; while in and out, between everybody's legs, and over or under all obstacles, stalked the two ravens Croak James and Croak Elizabeth, a big white wedding-favour tied round the neck of each. To see these grave birds, none would have suspected how frequently they had been in the mince-pies that morning, though Popham had expressly ruled (in somewhat stilted language) that they should "take nothink by their bills."

"Geoffrey," said the Baron, "I think we'll begin. Popham, tell them to light that fire there."

"The guests are still coming, sir," said Geoffrey.

"No matter. It is half after eleven." The Baron showed his sun-dial, and there was no doubt of it. "Here, take the keys," he said, "and bring the monster out for us."

"I'll go and put on my armour," suggested the young man. That would take time; perhaps the monks might arrive.

"Why, the brute's chained. You need no armour. Nonsense!"

"But think of my clothes in that pit, sir,—on my wedding-day."

"Pooh! That's the first sign of a Frenchman I've seen in you. Take the keys, sir."

The crackle of the kindling fagots came to Geoffrey's ears. He saw the forty men with chains that were to haul the Dragon into the fire.

"But there's Father Anselm yet to come," he protested. "Surely we wait for him."



"I'll wait for nobody. He with his Crusades and rubbish! Haven't I got this Dragon, and there's no Crusade?—Ah, Cousin Modus, glad you could come over. Just in time. The sherry's to your left. Yes, it's a very fine day. Yes, yes, this is Geoffrey my girl's to marry and all that.—What do I care about Father Anselm?" the old gentleman resumed testily, when his cousin Modus had shuffled off. "Come, sir."

He gave the keys into Geoffrey's unwilling hand, and ordered silence proclaimed.

"Hearken, good friends!" said he, and all talk and going to and fro ceased. The tenantry stood down in the court-yard, a mass of motionless russet and yellow, every face watching the Baron. The gentry swarmed noiselessly out upon the steps behind him, their handsome dresses bright against the Manor walls. There was a short pause. Old Gaffer Piers made a slight disturbance falling over with his cup of ale, but was quickly set on his feet by his neighbours. The sun blazed down, and the growling of the Dragon came from the pit.

"Yonder noise," pursued Sir Godfrey, "speaks more to the point than I could. I'll give you no speech." All loudly cheered at this.

"Don't you think," whispered the Rev. Hucbald in the Baron's ear, "that a little something serious should be said on such an occasion? I should like our brethren to be reminded——"

"Fudge!" said the Baron. "For thirteen years," he continued, raising his voice again, "this Dragon has been speaking for himself. You all know and I know how that has been. And now we are going to speak for ourselves. And when he is on top of that fire he'll know how that is. Geoffrey, open the pit and get him out."

Again there was a cheer, but a short one, for the spell of expectancy was on all. The young man descended into the court, and the air seemed to turn to a wavering mist as he looked up at the Manor windows seeking to spy Elaine's face at one of them. Was this to be the end? Could he kiss her one last good-by if disaster was in store for them after all? Alas! no glimpse of her was to be seen as he moved along, hardly aware of his own steps, and the keys jingling lightly as he moved. Through the crowd he passed, and a whispering ran in his wake followed by deeper silence than before. He reached the edge of the people and crossed the open space beyond, passing the leaping blaze of the fagots, and so drew near the iron door of the pit. The key went slowly into the lock. All shrank with dismay at the roar which rent the air. Geoffrey paused with his hand gripping the key, and there came a sound of solemn singing over the fields.

"The monks!" murmured a few under their breath; and silence fell again, each listening.

Men's voices it was, and their chanting rose by one sudden step to a high note that was held for a moment, and then sank again, mellow like the harmony of horns in a wood. Then over the ridge from Oyster-le-Main the length of a slow procession began to grow. The gray gowns hung to the earth straight with scarce any waving as the men walked. The heavy hoods reached over each face so there was no telling its features. None in the court-yard spoke at all, as the brooding figures passed in under the gateway and proceeded to the door of the bear-pit, singing always. Howlings that seemed born of terror now rose from the imprisoned monster; and many thought, "evidently the evil beast cannot endure the sound of holy words."

Elaine in her white dress now gazed from an upper window, seeing her lover with his enemies drawing continually closer around him.

Perhaps it was well for him that his death alone would not have served to lock their secret up again; that the white maiden in the window is ready to speak the word and direct instant vengeance on them and their dragon if any ill befall that young man who stands by the iron door.

The song of the monks ended. Sir Godfrey on the steps was wondering why Father Anselm did not stand out from the rest of the gray people and explain his wishes. "Though he shall not interrupt the sport, whatever he says," thought the Baron, and cast on the group of holy men a less hospitable eye than had beamed on his other guests. Geoffrey over at the iron door, surrounded by the motionless figures, scanned each hood narrowly and soon met the familiar eyes of Hubert. Hubert's gown, he noticed, bulged out in a manner ungainly and mysterious. "Open the door," whispered that youth. At once Geoffrey began to turn the key. And at its grinding all held their breath, and a quivering silence hung over the court. The hasty drops pattered down from the eaves from the snow that was melting on the roof. Then some strip of metal inside the lock sprung suddenly, making a sharp song, and ceased. The crowd of monks pressed closer together as the iron door swung open.



What did Geoffrey see? None but the monks could tell. Instantly a single roar more terrible than any burst out, and the huge horrible black head and jaws of the monster reared into the view of Sir Godfrey and his guests. One instant the fearful vision in the door-way swayed with a stiff strange movement over the knot of monks that surrounded it, then sank out of sight among them. There was a sound of jerking and fierce clanking of chains, mingled with loud chanting of pious sentences. Then a plume of spitting flame flared upward with a mighty roar, and the gray figures scattered right and left. There along the ground lay the monster, shrivelled, twisted in dismal coils, and dead. Close beside his black body towered Father Anselm, smoothing the folds of his gray gown. Geoffrey was sheathing his sword and looking at Hubert, whose dress bulged out no longer, but fitted him as usual.

"We have been vouchsafed a miracle," said Father Anselm quietly, to the gaping spectators.

"There'll be no burning," said Geoffrey, pointing to the shrunken skin. But though he spoke so coolly, and repelled all besieging disturbance from the fortress of his calm visage and bearing, as a bold and haughty youth should do, yet he could scarcely hold his finger steady as it pointed to the blackened carcase. Then all at once his eyes met those of Elaine where she watched from her window, and relief and joy rushed through him. He stretched his arms towards her, not caring who saw, and the look she sent him with a smile drove all surrounding things to an immeasurable distance away.

"Here indeed," Father Anselm repeated, "is a miracle. Lo, the empty shell! The snake hath shed his skin."

"This is very disappointing," said Sir Godfrey, bewildered. "Is there no dragon to roast?"

"The roasting," replied the Abbot, impressively, "is even now begun for all eternity." He stretched out an arm and pointed downward through the earth. "The evil spirit has fled. The Church hath taken this matter into her own hands, and claims yon barren hide as a relic."

"Well,—I don't see why the Church can't let good sport alone," retorted Sir Godfrey.

"Hope she'll not take to breaking up my cock-fights this way," muttered the Count de Gorgonzola, sulkily.

"The Church cares nothing for such profane frivolities," observed Father Anselm with cold dignity.

"At all events, friends," said Sir Godfrey, cheering up, "the country is rid of the Dragon of Wantley, and we've got a wedding and a breakfast left."

Just at this moment a young horseman rode furiously into the court-yard.

It was Roland, Sir Godfrey's son. "Great news!" he began at once. "Another Crusade has been declared—and I am going. Merry Christmas! Where's Elaine? Where's the Dragon?"

Father Anselm's quick brain seized this chance. He and his monks should make a more stately exit than he had planned.

"See," he said in a clear voice to his monks, "how all is coming true that was revealed to me this night! My son," he continued, turning to young Roland, "thy brave resolve reached me ere thou hadst made it. Know it has been through thee that the Dragon has gone!"

Upon this there was profound silence.

"And now," he added solemnly, "farewell. The monks of Oyster-le-Main go hence to the Holy Land also, to battle for the true Faith. Behold! we have made us ready to meet the toil."

His haughty tones ceased, and he made a sign. The gray gowns fell to the snow, and revealed a stalwart, fierce-looking crew in black armour. But the Abbot kept his gray gown.

"You'll stay for the wedding?" inquired Sir Godfrey of him.

"Our duty lies to the sea. Farewell, for I shall never see thy face again."

He turned. Hubert gathered up the hide of the crocodile and threw a friendly glance back at Geoffrey. Then again raising their song, the black band slowly marched out under the gate and away over the snow until the ridge hid them from sight, and only their singing could be heard in the distant fields.

"Well," exclaimed Sir Godfrey, "it's no use to stand staring. Now for the wedding! Mistletoe, go up and tell Miss Elaine. Hucbald, tell the organist to pipe up his music. And as soon as it's over we'll drink the bride's health and health to the bridegroom. 'Tis a lucky thing that between us all the Dragon is gone, for there's still enough of my Burgundy to last us till midnight. Come, friends, come in, for everything waits your pleasure!"



L'ENVOI

Reader, if thou hast found thy Way thus far, Sure then I've writ beneath a lucky Star; And Nothing so becomes all Journeys' Ends As that the Travellers should part as Friends.

THE END