ousand
pieces; whereupon the furious monster smote him so violently with its
tail that both horse and rider were overthrown.

Now, by great good chance, St. George was flung under the shade of a
flowering orange tree, whose fragrance hath this virtue in it, that no
poisonous beast dare come within the compass of its branches. So there
the valiant knight had time to recover his senses, until with eager
courage he rose, and rushing to the combat, smote the burning dragon on
his burnished belly with his trusty sword Ascalon; and thereinafter
spouted out such black venom, as, falling on the armour of the Knight,
burst it in twain. And ill might it have fared with St. George of Merrie
England but for the orange tree, which once again gave him shelter under
its branches, where, seeing the issue of the fight was in the Hands of
the Most High, he knelt and prayed that such strength of body should be
given him as would enable him to prevail. Then with a bold and
courageous heart, he advanced again, and smote the fiery dragon under
one of his flaming wings, so that the weapon pierced the heart, and all
the grass around turned crimson with the blood that flowed from the
dying monster. So St. George of England cut off the dreadful head, and
hanging it on a truncheon made of the spear which at the beginning of
the combat had shivered against the beast's scaly back, he mounted his
steed Bayard, and proceeded to the palace of the King.

Now the King's name was Ptolemy, and when he saw that the dreaded dragon
was indeed slain, he gave orders for the city to be decorated. And he
sent a golden chariot with wheels of ebony and cushions of silk to bring
St. George to the palace, and commanded a hundred nobles dressed in
crimson velvet, and mounted on milk-white steeds richly caparisoned, to
escort him thither with all honour, while musicians walked before and
after, filling the air with sweetest sounds.

Now the beautiful Sabia herself washed and dressed the weary Knight's
wounds, and gave him in sign of betrothal a diamond ring of purest
water. Then, after he had been invested by the King with the golden
spurs of knighthood and had been magnificently feasted, he retired to
rest his weariness, while the beautiful Sabia from her balcony lulled
him to sleep with her golden lute.

So all seemed happiness; but alas! dark misfortune was at hand.

Almidor, the black King of Morocco, who had long wooed the Princess
Sabia in vain, without hav