J. Dunne - St. George and the Witches

“How did you know that?” cried the startled St. George.

“Oh,” remarked the King, “one learns as one grows older.” And this time it was he and the Princess who smiled at each other.

“Well,” growled St. George, “I made it pretty clear to them, after we got inside again, that I was not seeking a wife yet. I saw to it, also, that the country wench who had impersonated the Princess for the dragon’s benefit was properly rewarded and returned safely to her home. And that really is the end of the story.”

“They offered you a knighthood, of course,” observed the King, “and, of course, you refused it.”

“Of course,” echoed both St. George and the Princess.

“Yes,” mused the King, “one could not accept a knighthood from so dishonorable a man. However, let us leave that unpleasant topic. You have contrived, St. George, to make your dragon-killing sound a very easy business. But I noticed, when you returned with my daughter the other day, that your helmet was deeply dented. How did that happen?”

St. George blushed. “That was done, sire,” he admitted, “by the sting in the brute’s tail when it whipped over in the death throes. You have to look out for that, of course, and jump the right way.”

“Which way did it come this time?” demanded the King.

St. George grew still more red. “Toward your daughter’s head, sir,” he muttered.

“And you, naturally, put your own head in the way,” observed the King.

“Why, of course,” said St. George angrily. “I had a helmet and she had none.”

“And then,” said the King, “you jumped back to the far side of the dragon so that the Princess, when she opened her eyes, should not guess what you had been doing.” He gave his thigh a resounding slap and let out a gale of laughter that shook the very roof. Cleodolinda did not laugh. She looked at St. George with shining eyes, and he forgot his embarrassment in the warmth of her gaze.

“Oh, children, children!” gasped the King, and the other two thought he must have taken leave of his senses. He wiped his streaming eyes. “Do not mind me,” he said. “I am old, and I grow foolish. But now, Sir Knight, listen, and I will tell you something about dragons.”

“The information I am going to give you,” began the King, “I had direct from my own astrologer royal, Sir Marmaduke Melchior, who is probably the most learned man in the whole country of Libya. Fire-breathing dragons, he told me, are rare for the simple reason that they come from volcanoes. Each of these burning mountains has within its glowing heart one fire-dragon. Now, when a volcano becomes burnt out, or ‘extinct,’ its dragon leaves it. The creature’s preliminary stirrings start, occasionally, a serious earthquake. Thereafter it emerges and seeks for a hotter place. Of course, it never finds one, and it dies in about a fortnight; but, during that period, it does, usually, an immense amount of damage. The dragon which wanted Cleodolinda came from a volcano in the country belonging to my sister, Queen Sophia—a country which borders mine on the east. This mountain ceased to erupt about two years ago; and, eighteen months later, there was a violent earthquake which tore great fissures in the countryside. A few days ago the dragon came out and made directly for my country. Sir Marmaduke, looking from the high tower of his observatory, saw the beast arrive.

“And now, here is another thing. Your discovery, St. George, that an armor of scales gives security against attack from the front, but none against assault from behind, is not really new. It is a piece of knowledge with which my hunters and the Princess here and I myself have long been acquainted. We employ it as a matter of course in all our dragon drives.”

“Dragon what?” inquired the puzzled St. George.

“Dragon drives,” repeated the King. “Do you not drive dragons in England?”

“We have no dragons there,” answered the Knight. “But would you kindly explain, sire, what is a ‘drive.’”

“There is a large wood near here,” said the King, “which is simply teeming with a small variety of dragon. The beasts are about as large as crocodiles; and, though they are not fire-breathers, they have armor of brazen scales, and very serviceable teeth and claws. They possess no poison stings; but, on the other hand, they are magnificent fliers, and can carry off oxen with ease. We compel them to fly from the forest over a line of archers standing upon the sward just beyond the edge of the trees. Our bowmen do not make the mistake of shooting at the creatures when these first appear flying toward them above the treetops. Arrows shot thus would simply glance harmlessly from the scales. No, the archer waits until the dragon has passed overhead, and then wheels round and shoots at the beast from behind. I tell you,” he went on with rising enthusiasm, “that there is no finer sight to be seen during a sportsman’s career than is afforded by one of these smitten dragons towering up, up into the sky until it is scarcely more than a tiny dot, and then somersaulting over and over, growing rapidly larger as it falls down, down to strike the earth with a clang such as fifty forges could not imitate.”

“But how do you make the beasts fly?” asked St. George.

“With elephants,” replied the King. “We have a line of these animals stretching right across the forest. Each carries a mahout (specially imported from India) and a man whom we call the ‘beater’—because he beats upon a large gong as the line advances. The mahout blows upon a horn. The sight of this moving wave of elephants is most impressive, and the noise is quite terrific. Our dragons cannot stand elephants—claws and teeth make no impression upon those thick hides, and the mighty legs would crush any creature they trod upon. But here is an idea. Shall we have a dragon drive tomorrow, and then you, St. George, can see the sport for yourself? More, you can take your stand with the archers, for I hear that you English are skilled beyond all other men in the use of the bow.”

“Splendid!” cried the Princess, clapping her hands, “and I, also, will take my bow and have a place among the shooters.”

“Now, now, Cleodolinda!” cried her father, “you know well that children, when they attend, must ride upon the elephants. The other post is too dangerous for them.”

“I would have you to know, my father,” replied the Princess, holding her head very high, “that I am no longer a child. I am a married woman. Moreover, you will agree that the wife of the bravest knight in Christendom should be the last woman to regard her personal safety as a matter for great concern.”

“But can you shoot straight enough, my dear?” asked the anxious King.

The Princess extracted a lump of sugar from a little bowl on the table before her and presented the morsel to her father. Then she moved to the wall of the boudoir, upon which there hung a small silver-mounted bow and a quiver of arrows. “Do you, sire,” she said, “stand at the far end of the room, holding the sugar between your fingers. I will undertake to shoot that target away without injury to yourself.” She selected an arrow as she spoke.

“No, no!” cried the King. “I will take your word for your skill, my pet.” He looked across at St. George, and both men, the old and the young, raised their eyebrows and grinned feebly. It was as if they had said, with one accord, “Oh, these women!”

“Very well, then,” sighed the King, “that is settled. Tomorrow at midday, let it be; for these dragons do not fly well until they have been warmed by the sun. And now I must leave you to your rest.” He rose and kissed the Princess’ fingers. “Your tea, my dear, is excellent beyond words; but I will take no more, for I suspect that it might unsteady me for the shooting. So, good night to you both.”