emies 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 Godfrey 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.

[Illustration: 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 Godfrey
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