er Church," said Father Anselm.

"Hear me, all people!" shouted Sir Godfrey, foreseeing that before
the next Crusade came every drop of wine in his cellar would be
swallowed by the Dragon; "hear me proclaim and solemnly promise:
legend true or legend false, my daughter shall not face this risk. But
if her heart go with it, her hand shall be given to that man who by
night or light brings me this Dragon, alive or dead!"

[Illustration: Geoffrey replyeth with deplorable Flippancy to Father
Anselm.]

"A useless promise, Sir Godfrey!" said Father Anselm, shrugging his
shoulders. "We dare not discredit the word of thy respected
grandsire."

"My respected grandsire be----"

"_What?_" said the Abbot.

"Became a credit to his family," said the Baron, quite mildly; "and I
slight no word of his. But he did not contradict this legend in the
vision, I think."

"No, he did not, papa," Miss Elaine put in. "He only mentioned
another way of getting rid of this horrible Dragon. Now, papa,
whatever you may say about--about my heart and hand," she continued
firmly, "I am going to meet the Monster alone myself, to-night."

"That you shall not," said Sir Godfrey.

"A hundred times no!" said a new voice from the crowd. "I will meet
him myself!"

All turned and saw a knight pushing his way through the people.

"Who are you?" inquired the Baron.

The stranger bowed haughtily; and Elaine watched him remove his
helmet, and reveal underneath it the countenance of a young man who
turned to her, and----

Why, what's this, Elaine? Why does everything seem to swim and grow
misty as his eye meets yours? And why does he look at you so, and
deeply flush to the very rim of his curly hair? And as his glance
grows steadier and more intent upon your eyes that keep stealing over
at him, can you imagine why his hand trembles on the hilt of his
sword? Don't you remember what the legend said?

"Who are you?" the Baron repeated, impatiently.

"I am Geoffrey, son of Bertram of Poictiers," answered the young man.

"And what," asked Father Anselm, with a certain irony in his voice,
"does Geoffrey, son of Bertram of Poictiers, so far away from his papa
in this inclement weather?"

The knight surveyed the monk for a moment, and then said, "As thou art
not my particular Father Confessor, stick to those matters which
concern thee."

This reply did not please any man present, for it seemed to savour of
disrespect. But Elaine lost no chance of wat