That he does not believe in Firedrakes," interrupted Prigio. "The
weather's warm enough without going out hunting!"

"Not believe in Firedrakes!" cried Alphonso. "I wonder what you _do_
believe in! Just let me get at the creature!" for he was as brave as a
lion. "Hi! Page, my chain-armour, helmet, lance, and buckler! _A
Molinda_! _A Molinda_!" which was his _war-cry_.

The page ran to get the armour; but it was so _uncommonly hot_ that he
dropped it, and put his fingers in his mouth, crying!

{The page crying: p21.jpg}

"You had better put on flannels, Alphonso, for this kind of work," said
Prigio. "And if I were you, I'd take a light garden-engine, full of
water, to squirt at the enemy."

"Happy thought!" said Alphonso. "I will!" And off he went, kissed his
dear Molinda, bade her keep a lot of dances for him (there was to be a
dance when he had killed the Firedrake), and then he rushed to the field!

But he never came back any more!

Everyone wept bitterly--everyone but Prince Prigio; for he thought it was
a practical joke, and said that Alphonso had taken the opportunity to
start off on his travels and see the world.

"There is some dreadful mistake, sir," said Prigio to the king. "You
know as well as I do that the youngest son has always succeeded, up to
now. But I entertain great hopes of Enrico!"

And he grinned; for he fancied it was all _nonsense_, and that there were
no Firedrakes.

Enrico was present when Prigio was consoling the king in this unfeeling
way.

"Enrico, my boy," said his majesty, "the task awaits you, and the honour.
When _you_ come back with the horns and tail of the Firedrake, you shall
be crown prince; and Prigio shall be made an usher at the Grammar
School--it is all he is fit for."

Enrico was not quite so confident as Alphonso had been. He insisted on
making his will; and he wrote a poem about the pleasures and advantages
of dying young. This is part of it:

_The violet is a blossom sweet_,
_That droops before the day is done_--
_Slain by thine overpowering heat_,
_O Sun_!

_And I_, _like that sweet purple flower_,
_May roast_, _or boil_, _or broil_, _or bake_,
_If burned by thy terrific power_,
_Firedrake_!

This poem comforted Enrico more or less, and he showed it to Prigio. But
the prince only laughed, and said that the second line of the last verse
was not very good; for violets do not "roast, or boil, or broil