Every night Thia accompanied Thol on one of the two journeys; and during the other she would go to the forest and gather wood, so that there should always be plenty of fuel in hand. She was sorry to have had to abandon her geese, for she felt they would not be as happy with any one as they had been with her. Nothing else whatever was there to mar her joy in the life that she and Thol were leading together, and in the good that they were doing. It amused her to know that the homelanders would think she had wandered away—she who was serving them so well. Its very secrecy made her life the more joyous.
Daily she prayed to the sun and other gods that she and Thol might live to be very old and might never fail in their work.
But the sun and those others were not good listeners.
As the nights lengthened and the leaves began to fall, the mists over the marshes and around them grew ever thicker. It was not easy to find the way through them; and they were very cold, and had a savour that was bitter to the tongue and to the nostrils. And one morning Thia, when she woke, was shivering from head to foot, though she was in Thol’s arms. She slipped away from him without waking him, and went not merely to tend the fire but also to warm herself at it. All through the morning she was shivering; and in the evening her hands became hot, as did her face and all her body. She felt very weak. She could laugh no more now at Thol’s disquietude. She lay down, but could not lie very still. At about the time when they were wont to sally forth, she rose up, feeling that even though she might not be able to carry the birds to-night the journey would freshen her. She soon found that she was too weak even to stand. Thol was loth to leave her; but she insisted that the work must be done. Again and again, next day and during the next night, she implored him that if she died he would not mourn her very much and would not once falter in the work. He promised that he would not falter. Other days and nights passed. It seemed to Thol that Thia had ceased to know him. She did not even follow him with her eyes now. One morning, at daybreak, soon after his return from the third journey, she seemed, by her gaze, to know him. But presently she died in his arms.
On that night he went to the forest and dug a grave for his wife. Then, returning to the cave, he took her in his arms, and carried her away, and buried her.
In the time that followed, he was not altogether lonely. He felt by day that somehow she was in the cave with him still, and by night he felt that she walked with him. He never faltered in the work.
He faltered not much even when the marshes did to him as they had done to Thia. Shivering in every limb, or hot and aching, and very weak, he yet forced himself to tend the fire and at nightfall to brandish the torch and clash the stones and drag in the beasts and birds. It irked him that he was not strong enough to carry even one sheep away. Surely, he would be strong again soon? For Thia’s sake, and for the homeland’s, he wished ardently to live. But there came an evening when the watchers in the valley saw no rising and falling, heard no clashing, of the dragon’s jaws.
Would the dragon come forth to-night? The valley on the further side of the stream was now thickly crowded. On the nearer side were many single adventurers, with spears. Their prowess and skill were not tested. The dragon came not forth.
In the dawn it was noted that his smoke was far less thick than it was wont to be. Soon it ceased altogether. What had happened? Perchance the dragon was ailing? But even an ailing dragon would breathe. A great glad surmise tremulously formed itself. Was the dragon dead?