What did Geoffrey see? None but the monks could tell. Instantly a single roar more terrible than any burst out, and the huge horrible black head and jaws of the monster reared into the view of Sir Godfrey and his guests. One instant the fearful vision in the door-way swayed with a stiff strange movement over the knot of monks that surrounded it, then sank out of sight among them. There was a sound of jerking and fierce clanking of chains, mingled with loud chanting of pious sentences. Then a plume of spitting flame flared upward with a mighty roar, and the gray figures scattered right and left. There along the ground lay the monster, shrivelled, twisted in dismal coils, and dead. Close beside his black body towered Father Anselm, smoothing the folds of his gray gown. Geoffrey was sheathing his sword and looking at Hubert, whose dress bulged out no longer, but fitted him as usual.
“We have been vouchsafed a miracle,” said Father Anselm quietly, to the gaping spectators.
“There’ll be no burning,” said Geoffrey, pointing to the shrunken skin. But though he spoke so coolly, and repelled all besieging disturbance from the fortress of his calm visage and bearing, as a bold and haughty youth should do, yet he could scarcely hold his finger steady as it pointed to the blackened carcase. Then all at once his eyes met those of Elaine where she watched from her window, and relief and joy rushed through him. He stretched his arms towards her, not caring who saw, and the look she sent him with a smile drove all surrounding things to an immeasurable distance away.
“Here indeed,” Father Anselm repeated, “is a miracle. Lo, the empty shell! The snake hath shed his skin.”
“This is very disappointing,” said Sir Godfrey, bewildered. “Is there no dragon to roast?”
“The roasting,” replied the Abbot, impressively, “is even now begun for all eternity.” He stretched out an arm and pointed downward through the earth. “The evil spirit has fled. The Church hath taken this matter into her own hands, and claims yon barren hide as a relic.”
“Well,—I don’t see why the Church can’t let good sport alone,” retorted Sir Godfrey.
“Hope she’ll not take to breaking up my cock-fights this way,” muttered the Count de Gorgonzola, sulkily.
“The Church cares nothing for such profane frivolities,” observed Father Anselm with cold dignity.
“At all events, friends,” said Sir Godfrey, cheering up, “the country is rid of the Dragon of Wantley, and we’ve got a wedding and a breakfast left.”