“Nothing, naturally, it being a matter plain to be seen without a microscope, and hence not interesting to a scientific man. Well, Mr. Poet Fitzgerald, wade into the river by all means, though I might warn you against catching cold. As I said, I am a practical man. But there’s something more than a feverish cold hidden in the blackness of that split in the mountains, in my opinion.” He stopped, and the others stared expectantly into the gorge. “There’s dragons,” he exclaimed, like an explosion. “Credo quia absurdum.” The voice of Quentin unexpectedly broke the silence, and Sprot jumped round as if his fancies had taken on a fearful reality. “These mountains are certainly full of dragons,” continued Quentin. “Listen!” They listened, and a murmur of rippling water came down the gorge. “Do you not hear them drinking and swimming? Do you not realize that all these past days, as we walked among contorted crags, we were among dragons, twisting and grinning in their sleep? Look above you at those gruesome, moonlit shapes among the mountains, and their light, white breath drifting about the peaks. Look——” He stopped abruptly, and resumed in a queer tone. “Look, in fact, at that one hanging in the air.” They looked and saw a great, beaked bird floating overhead with wide, motionless wings. Their mouths hung open, and Ambrose ascertained afterwards that their sensations were rather of astonishment than alarm. Frew-Gaff was the first to bring his mind to bear on it. “An aeroplane, by all that’s holy!” he exclaimed. The bird wheeled round a great circle and vanished over the mountains. “Then what silent engines!” replied Quentin. “I fear it is the Dragon. Remember the emblem on our boats. It is clear that we have come here, by the hand of Such-a-one, in the capacity of sacrifice for some annual feast. Hence the respectful attitude of the surrounding population. Sprot will undoubtedly suffer first.” Sprot was pale, trembling. “The camp!” he muttered. “The girls!” Taken by his infectious alarm, they rushed back to the camp. All was well. The blue-clad stewards, under the assiduous tutelage of Such-a-one, were prostrating themselves forehead to ground. The others were looking up at the mountains with mingled amusement and apprehension, as if they preferred to believe that someone had played a rather uncanny joke. The girls, by their dishevelled hair, had come from their pillows. This drew Quentin. “A girl fresh from her bed is among the most intoxicating sights of earth,” he murmured to Ambrose. Then Blackwood came flitting through the night with a not altogether well-disciplined haste, asking: “What is it in the sky?” The matter was pretty thoroughly discussed, without satisfactory conclusion. “Anyway,” said Lord Sombrewater at last, “dragon or aeroplane, the incident adds piquancy to the adventure. What do you say, Lychnis? Would you rather go back?” She shook her head. “On the contrary.” “And you, Ruby?”