, and was tugging at the tough wood. He
left it and went to an ash.

"You'll spoil that weeper," Adrian cried. "Down she comes! But
good-night, Ricky. If you see Benson mind you tell him."

Doomed Benson following his burly shadow hove in sight on the white road
while Adrian spoke. The wise youth chuckled and strolled round the lake,
glancing over his shoulder every now and then.

It was not long before he heard a bellow for help--the roar of a dragon
in his throes. Adrian placidly sat down on the grass, and fixed his
eyes on the water. There, as the roar was being repeated amid horrid
resounding echoes, the wise youth mused in this wise--

"'The Fates are Jews with us when they delay a punishment,' says The
Pilgrim's Scrip, or words to that effect. The heavens evidently love
Benson, seeing that he gets his punishment on the spot. Master Ricky is
a peppery young man. He gets it from the apt Gruffudh. I rather believe
in race. What a noise that old ruffian makes! He'll require poulticing
with The Pilgrim's Scrip. We shall have a message to-morrow, and a
hubbub, and perhaps all go to town, which won't be bad for one who's
been a prey to all the desires born of dulness. Benson howls: there's
life in the old dog yet! He bays the moon. Look at her. She doesn't
care. It's the same to her whether we coo like turtle-doves or roar like
twenty lions. How complacent she looks! And yet she has dust as much
sympathy for Benson as for Cupid. She would smile on if both were
being birched. Was that a raven or Benson? He howls no more. It sounds
guttural: frog-like--something between the brek-kek-kek and the hoarse
raven's croak. The fellow'll be killing him. It's time to go to the
rescue. A deliverer gets more honour by coming in at the last gasp than
if he forestalled catastrophe.--Ho, there, what's the matter?"

So saying, the wise youth rose, and leisurely trotted to the scene of
battle, where stood St. George puffing over the prostrate Dragon.

"Holloa, Ricky! is it you?" said Adrian. "What's this? Whom have we
here?--Benson, as I live!"

"Make this beast get up," Richard returned, breathing hard, and shaking
his great ash-branch.

"He seems incapable, my dear boy. What have you been up to?--Benson!
Benson!--I say, Ricky, this looks bad."

"He's shamming!" Richard clamoured like a savage. "Spy upon me, will he?
I tell you, he's shamming. He hasn't had half enough. Nothing's too bad
for a spy. Let him getup!"

"Insatiate