Witches and wizards came to make more able charms. Messengers galloped away to summon the distant army. The King raged and roared. Said His Majesty: “Let that reprobate dragon return, if he dares. If he dares, let that reprobate dragon return.” The courtiers trembled and gasped: “Pray may the wicked loong never return. Never, never return.” But little Princess Many Dimples played with her pies and was happy. Her pies had been baked to a queen’s taste—or rather to the taste of a princess. Beside the river she worked faithfully in wet white clay. Such beautiful pies. “I do hope that the nice loong will return,” said Princess Chin Uor. “He is such a fine oven. I shall make a hundred more pies for his baking.”
Pie after pie. Even the nurses helped. Instead of saying, “Please, will your Royal Highness not play with this lovely doll?” they said, “Please, is this one rounded enough?” and “Please, shall I scallop the edges a trifle deeper?” and “Shall I imagine that this one contains cherries, or radishes?” or whatever it may be that makers of pies would say in a royal kitchen. So, a hundred pies were made and wheeled to the palace. In reality, they numbered a hundred and one, but the odd one was so thick that it must be called a cake. Howbeit, that is not so important as you might think.
Night followed day—a habit that most nights have. The soldiers slept—as they had been ordered not to do. The hour approached when clock hands point to the highest sky. Midnight came, and with it the mountainous mountain loong. Unseen by those whose duty was seeing, the dragon entered King Yang Lang’s courtyard. And there he was perplexed and paused. The King’s door was a hodgepodge of magic signs, plastered with yellow paper. Vain to think of entering there. The Queen’s door was upside down—best charm of all. To think of entering was vain. The door that led to Princess Chin Uor’s sleeping chamber was written thick with words to still a dragon’s heart, circles to dizzy his head. Say what you please, the witches and wizards had done good work upon that door. Their charms were written with clearness and force. The loong dared not take a second glance. He felt his limbs grow weak. Wisely hastened he from the spell-guarded threshold.
Now in the reign of the Emperor Ming, a crazed and knavish fellow, known to the world as Wing Dow, invented a contrivance called by him “Look-through-the-wall,” but which we of today call a “Window.” His invention gave the Emperor Ming a severe cold, and Wing Dow came within a sword’s width of losing his ears—but more of that later. Here it is necessary to say only that Look-through-the-walls became popular, and many such were to be found in King Yang Lang’s palace. In the Princess Chin Uor’s room were many wing-dows (or windows), and—hard to believe—those wing-dows were unguarded either by charm or by apple wood beam, which is as good as a charm. Could the dragon pass by such a fine chance? Could he pass the wing-dow and not have a try? When he had come with purpose to do harm? It is easy to imagine the thing that happened. And yet not so easy as may seem.
The dragon’s lumpish head entered the wing-dow. His deer horns, his rabbit eyes, his snake tongue, all entered, and easily enough. A ponderous sofa-cushion foot he placed upon the window ledge. . . .
Crash, and smash, and clatter. . . .
The nurses awoke and screamed, “Save us.”
The Princess Chin Uor awoke and said, “Shoo.”
Soldiers in the courtyard awoke and lighted green fires as they smote their drums, saying: “Come if you dare. Help. Help.”
The dragon was already awake—awake to the danger. Promptly he vanished. Such noise he could not abide.