Of _course_ n.o.body 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 c.o.c.k-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 c.o.c.k-fight.

All these gentlemen, as soon as they heard the great news, started for the Manor with the utmost speed.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Sir Thomas de Brie hastens to accept the Baron's polite Inuitation]

Nor was it the quality alone who were so unanimous in their feelings.

The Tenantry (to whom Sir G.o.dfrey 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 G.o.dfrey. 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 G.o.dfrey 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 n.o.body. 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 G.o.dfrey. "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 f.a.gots 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 f.a.gots 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."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"I'll wait for n.o.body. 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 ma.s.s 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 G.o.dfrey, "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 pa.s.sed, and a whispering ran in his wake followed by deeper silence than before. He reached the edge of the people and crossed the open s.p.a.ce beyond, pa.s.sing the leaping blaze of the f.a.gots, 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.dfrey 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE DRAGON MAKETH HIS LAST APPEARANCE]

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 G.o.dfrey 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 sh.e.l.l! The snake hath shed his skin."

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