The dragon on the bridge was yet more dreadful than the one Florea and Costan had seen, for this one had seven heads instead of only three. Petru stopped for a moment when he caught sight of this terrible creature. Then he found his voice. ‘Get out of the way!’ cried he. ‘Get out of the way!’ he repeated again, as the dragon did not move. ‘Get out of the way!’ and with this last summons he drew his sword and rushed upon him. In an instant the heavens seemed to darken round him and he was surrounded by fire--fire to right of him, fire to left of him, fire to front of him, fire to rear of him; nothing but fire whichever way he looked, for the dragon’s seven heads were vomiting flame. The horse neighed and reared at the horrible sight, and Petru could not use the sword he had in readiness. ‘Be quiet! this won’t do!’ he said, dismounting hastily, but holding the bridle firmly in his left hand and grasping his sword in his right. But even so he got on no better, for he could see nothing but fire and smoke. ‘There is no help for it; I must go back and get a better horse,’ said he, and mounted again and rode homewards. At the gate of the palace his nurse, old Birscha, was waiting for him eagerly. ‘Ah, Petru, my son, I knew you would have to come back,’ she cried. ‘You did not set about the matter properly.’ ‘How ought I to have set about it?’ asked Petru, half angrily, half sadly. ‘Look here, my boy,’ replied old Birscha. ‘You can never reach the spring of the Fairy of the Dawn unless you ride the horse which your father, the emperor, rode in his youth. Go and ask where it is to be found, and then mount it and be off with you.’ Petru thanked her heartily for her advice, and went at once to make inquiries about the horse. ‘By the light of my eyes!’ exclaimed the emperor when Petru had put his question. ‘Who has told you anything about that? It must have been that old witch of a Birscha? Have you lost your wits? Fifty years have passed since I was young, and who knows where the bones of my horse may be rotting, or whether a scrap of his reins still lie in his stall? I have forgotten all about him long ago.’ Petru turned away in anger, and went back to his old nurse. ‘Do not be cast down,’ she said with a smile; ‘if that is how the affair stands all will go well. Go and fetch the scrap of the reins; I shall soon know what must be done.’ The place was full of saddles, bridles, and bits of leather. Petru picked out the oldest, and blackest, and most decayed pair of reins, and brought them to the old woman, who murmured something over them and sprinkled them with incense, and held them out to the young man. ‘Take the reins,’ said she, ‘and strike them violently against the pillars of the house.’