r allowing me to go home at
once."

"Before I do that," he said, "you must write a letter on my behalf to
your parents."

"I don't mind asking them to overlook the way you have treated me, and
assuring them that you regret it and will behave yourself properly for
the future," conceded Edna, "if you mean _that_."

"I _don't_ mean that," he said; "I don't _want_ to behave properly--what
_they_ would call properly. I want to lead a fuller life than I can
while I'm cooped up in my own Castle. You see, it's no good having the
Will to Power if you're not allowed any opportunities of exercising it.
And I'm not, with guards stationed all round my walk to see that I don't
get out. I might set Tuetzi at them, it's true, but he is the only dragon
I've got, and it would be very annoying if they hurt the poor thing. So
you must get the King to send me free permission to go wherever I choose
and do whatever I like. Then I can make a start as an Ogre. At present
I'm hampered at every turn!"

"Father and Mother," said Edna, "wouldn't hear of setting you free for
such wickedness as that. It would be contrary to all their principles."

"What I think you called 'Slave-morality,' eh?" he said. "But you
needn't tell them _why_ I want to get out. Besides, I've _other_
reasons. My carriage horses want airing, and I should like to drop in to
lunch at the Palace now and then, as I used to. Not as your betrothed,
you know--that's all over--but just as a friend of the family. I always
enjoyed my meals at the Palace."

"Oh!" gasped Edna, "I'm sure, quite sure, they would never consent to
receive you again. How _could_ they?"

"They would," he said, "if you told them what would be the consequences
if they didn't."

"And--and--what _will_ the consequences be?" inquired Edna.

"Well," he replied darkly, "poor Tuetzi will never reach his full growth
on his present diet. I fancy he would rather relish a change."

"You _couldn't_ see me--me you were once engaged to--devoured by your
horrible dragon!" she cried.

"Why not?" he asked cheerfully. "I am great enough now to be able to
bear the sight of others' pain, as your learned What's-his-name said I
ought to be."

"Listen," said the unhappy Edna. "If--if I write this letter will you
promise me, on your sacred word of honour, to become a vegetarian at
_once_?"

"Certainly," he said. "It won't _bind_ me, you know. You might put in
the letter that I've promised to. Rather a good touch! Now