‘How should I know?’ asked Thol. ‘And you left them there? Do you not love them?’ ‘I have never loved them.’ ‘But they were your task?’ ‘O Thia, the dragon was my task.’ She stroked his arm. ‘The dragon is dead, O Thol. You have slain the dragon, O my brave dear one. That task is done. You must find some other. All men must work. Since you loved not your sheep, you shall love my geese, and I will teach you to drive them with me.’ ‘That,’ said Thol, ‘would not be a man’s work, O Thia.’ ‘But they say you are a god! And I think a god may do as he will.’ Her flock had swum out into the pond. She called it back to her, and headed it away towards some willows. From one of these she plucked for Thol a long twig such as she herself carried, and, having stripped it of its leaves, gave it to him and began to teach him her art. * * * * * There was, as Thia had known there must be, a great concourse of people around and about the dragon. There was a long line of children riding on its back; there were infants in arms being urged by their mothers never to forget that they had seen it; there were many young men and women trying to rip off some of its scales, as reminders; and there were elders exchanging reminiscences of its earliest raids and correcting one another on various points. And the whole crowd of holiday-makers was so intent that the gradual approach of that earnest worker, Thol, was not noticed until he came quite near. Very gradual, very tortuous and irregular, his approach was. Thia, just now, was letting him shift for himself, offering no hints at all. For the homelanders’ sake, she wished him to be seen at his worst. It was ill that they should worship a false god. To her, he was something better than a real god. But this was another matter. To the homelanders, he ought to seem no more than a man who had done a great deed and set a high example. And for his own sake, and so for hers--for how could his not be hers?--she wished him to have no more honour than was his due. Splendid man though he was, and only a year younger than herself, he was yet a child; and children, thought Thia--though she was conscious that she herself, for all the petting she had received, was rather perfect--are easily spoilt. Altogether, the goose-girl’s motives were as pure as her perception was keen. Admirable, too, were her tactics; and they should have succeeded. Yet they failed. In the eyes of the homelanders the goose-god lost not a jot of his divinity. No hint of disillusion was in the moans evoked by the sight of him. Grief, shame, horror at his condescension, and a deep wrath against the whilom darling Thia, were all that was felt by the kneeling and swaying crowd.