Those who dared to look saw the vast length of the dragon, neck on grass, coiling slowly round. The tip of the tail met the head and parted from it. Presently the vast length was straight, motionless.
Yet even of those who had dared look none dared believe that the dragon was indeed dead.
But for its death-cry, Thol himself would hardly have believed.
The second firm believer was Thia. Thia, with swift conviction, plucked some flowers and put them loosely into her hair. Thia, singing as well as though she had never ceased to sing, and dancing as prettily as though she had for years been practising her steps, went singing and dancing towards the stream. Lightly she lept the stream, and then very seriously and quietly walked to the spot where Thol stood. She looked up at him, and then, without a word, raised her arms and put her hands upon his shoulders. He, who had slain the dragon, trembled.
‘O Thol,’ she said gently, ‘you turn not away from me, but neither do you raise me from the ground.’
Then Thol raised Thia thrice from the ground.
And he said, ‘Let our home be the cave that was my father’s.’
Hand in hand, man and wife, they went up the hill, and round to the eastern side of its summit. But when they came to the mouth of the old cave there, he paused and let go her hand.
‘O Thia,’ he said wonderingly, ‘is it indeed true that you love me?’
‘O Thol,’ she answered, ‘it is most true.’