XXXII
A month had passed. The General Election was over. The great drought, the heaviness, the dull unrest was ended. The Dragon of the myth, the monster which slowly sucks up the waters, condemning the land to infertility and pestilence, was slain, and the waters gushed forth again to fruitfulness. The myriad warriors who had helped to pierce his flanks went coursing over the plain, with a brandishing of spears and cries of ‘Victory!’ St. George turned in his long sleep and opened his heavy eyes. Well did he know those triumphing shouts. Was the race of dragons ended now, or would a new dragon spring from the blood of the old as heretofore?