“Harry, after what I said I did not expect this.”
“It was quite by accident we met, Uncle. Lilla has had a terrible shock,” I exclaimed hastily. “A hideous serpent—terrible conflict—”
I stopped short, for there was a sneering grin of disbelief on Garcia’s countenance, which made me want to dash my fist in his face, as he said:
“Very terrible conflict—a very dragon attacking the maiden, and this new Saint George of England coming to her rescue. I don’t see any blood about.”
“I should like to make some come from his nose,” muttered Tom.
“What has happened?” said my uncle frowning; for he did not seem to like Garcia’s allusion.
Lilla spoke in faint trembling tones:
“I was resting after gathering those flowers, when a rustling overhead took my attention, and—ah!—”
She shuddered, turned pale, and covered her face with her hands, quite unable to proceed; when my uncle turned to me, and I explained what I had seen, in proof of which I turned to the beaten-down foliage, upon which lay thickly, in spite of Garcia’s words, fast-drying spots and gouts of blood, which we traced right down to the river’s bank, in a dense bed of reeds, where they ceased, and it was not thought advisable to search farther.
“Let us get back, my child,” said my uncle tenderly to Lilla. “You must come alone into the woods no more.”