J. Dunne - St. George and the Witches

“On my way home I pondered deeply upon what I had observed. It was easy enough to understand why the dragon had opened its mouth and drawn that deep breath. The fires within it were merely smoldering, and the inrush of air was needed to blow them to a blaze. Evidently, all fire-breathing dragons would have to do this before they could shoot out the blast which should shrivel their enemies. Evidently, also, they would close their eyes during this preparatory action. Therefore, as I said before, an active man should find no difficulty in arriving uninjured beside the monster’s neck. But what was he to do when he got there? You cannot pierce a dragon’s brazen scales with a sword, you know.”

“But,” interrupted the King. He paused. “Never mind, go on.”

“Then,” continued St. George, “I had what one might call a wave of activity in whatever it is one thinks with.” He looked at them doubtfully. “I am afraid,” he said, “that I am not making myself very clear.”

“On the contrary,” replied the King, “the description is most lucid, though rather too long, perhaps, for use in everyday conversation. You see what he means, do you not, princess?”

“I think so,” said Cleodolinda, frowning slightly.

“Well,” said St. George, “this is what came to me in a flash of thought: Scales overlap, you know. Those in front lie half over those which are next behind them. So, when you poke at a dragon from its front, your lance point or sword point merely slides along the scale it strikes first and slips over the back end of this onto the middle of the scale next behind. In this way your thrust might glance along the whole length of the beast’s body without ever finding a crevice through which it could enter. But, if you were to thrust against those scales, striking forward from behind, your point would slip over the scale you struck and then slip in under the back edge of the scale next in front. Do you see what I mean?”

“Yes,” cried the Princess, “but . . .” Then she, in her turn, paused.

St. George waited; then, as she said no more, he went on. He had risen, and drew his dagger in order to show better what he meant. “Now, I,” he cried, “would be beside the monster’s neck, facing its tail. If I were to stab with a backward stroke, my point would slip in under the scales; and, if I aimed correctly, it would pass on into the brute’s brain through the soft place underneath the back of the skull.”

“Mind the teapot!” cried the Princess.

“I beg your pardon,” said St. George. He replaced his dagger in its sheath, and continued his story.

“Next day the usual news was being proclaimed by heralds throughout the town. The dragon, following custom, had demanded the King’s daughter for a meal, this being the price of his departure; and the King (so said the heralds) out of his great love for his people had decided to sacrifice his fair child. But, of course, one-half of the kingdom, together with the lady’s hand in marriage, were offered to any knight who might save the girl by slaying the monster.”

“What king was that?” asked Cleodolinda.

“The country was called ‘Etheria,’” answered St. George, “but I am afraid that I cannot tell you exactly where it is. I was traveling on the Continent at the time, and my knowledge of geography is rather weak.”

“Well,” said the Princess, “did you offer your services as a rescuer?”

“No,” said St. George. “Knights only were asked for, and I was no knight then. But I armed myself with a long, thin dagger, which I concealed in my sleeve; and I followed the procession which led the Princess to the place of sacrifice in the forest. She wore, I may say, a heavy veil. When the others had departed I hid behind a tree.”

“Go on,” said the King, as St. George hesitated.

“I do not know, really, if I ought to tell you this,” confessed the young man, “but, having gone thus far, I do not see how I can stop. . . . From the first, then, I had my doubts about that princess. The girl did not go at all willingly, as would have befitted one of royal rank, and after they had left her she did rather a lot of weeping and wailing. I was so puzzled at her behavior that, watching her, I failed to notice the approach of the dragon. The brute slithered up with surprising quietness, and suddenly poked its head out of the bracken. Then it spoke to the girl in a voice like the sound of a creaking windmill. ‘Who are you?’ it demanded.

“‘Oh! lawks-a-mussy-on-me!’ she screamed. ‘Garn away, ye nasty ugly critter!’

“Then, of course, I saw the truth—and so did the monster. ‘Where’s that king?’ it bellowed. ‘I’ll teach him to deceive a dragon!’

“It swung round away from the girl; and at that moment I stepped from behind my tree and walked slowly toward it—slowly, because I wanted the beast to misjudge my pace. It crouched immediately, resting its head on its forepaws and arching its neck; watching me the while with unwavering green eyes. It allowed me to stroll to within ten feet of it before it performed the movement I was expecting. Then, as the upper part of its head went back and its eyes closed, I stepped to the left and sprang in.”

“And then?” cried the King and the Princess together, both leaning forward.

“Oh,” said St. George, “the theory worked out perfectly. The dagger penetrated the brain, and the brute was dead before ever it had finished drawing that deep breath.”

“And what did you say to the girl afterwards?” asked the Princess. She asked it rather anxiously.

“Well, you see,” replied St. George ruefully, “she was fat as a pudding, and she kept up a continuous squalling. Testing new theories is always rather trying work, and I am afraid I rather snapped at her. What I said, actually, was, ‘For goodness’ sake, girl, stop that blubbering! Nothing is going to eat you.’”

“Oh!” said the Princess. She looked, for some reason, relieved.

“But, I suppose,” she went on, “that you have saved lots of damsels since then?”

St. George counted on his fingers. “Six, I believe,” he said.

“And did they,” inquired the Princess, “all (what was the word you used?) ‘blubber’?”

“All except one,” said the Knight. He sighed reminiscently. “She,” he added, “was a dream of beauty.”

“What did she do?” asked the Princess, quickly.

“She just looked at me,” replied St. George, “and said, very gravely, ‘You have no right, sir, to call me your “pretty” just because—’”

“Oh!” cried the Princess. She blushed. Then she smiled at St. George.

“Well, go on with the story,” said the King impatiently, after waiting nearly a minute.

“I beg your pardon,” apologized St. George. “But there is really no more to tell.”

“Oh, but there must be,” cried the King. “How, for one thing, did you get the sham princess through the town and into the palace?”

“I made her keep her veil down,” answered the Knight, “and I had the sense to order some of the crowd to run on ahead and warn the King of our coming. He was waiting for us when we arrived; and, after a hasty embrace, he hustled the girl into an anteroom. Thence there emerged, two minutes later, the real Princess wearing the girl’s clothes and veil. She walked into the courtyard and threw open the veil. The crowd yelled like anything.”

“Oh! what a shame!” cried Cleodolinda.

“And then,” said the King, “the lady threw her arms round your neck and exclaimed, ‘My preserver! My future husband.’”