He could hardly
believe, even now, that he was positively the only starter.
'This is Sir Agravaine the Dolorous,' said the king to the damsel.
'Will you take him as your champion?'
Agravaine held his breath. But all was well. The damsel bowed.
'Then, Sir Agravaine,' said the king, 'perhaps you had better have your
charger sent round at once. I imagine that the matter is pressing--time
and--er--dragons wait for no man.'
Ten minutes later Agravaine, still dazed, was jogging along to the
hills, with the damsel by his side.
It was some time before either of them spoke. The damsel seemed
preoccupied, and Agravaine's mind was a welter of confused thoughts,
the most prominent of which and the one to which he kept returning
being the startling reflection that he, who had pined for romance so
long, had got it now in full measure.
A dragon! Fiery withal. Was he absolutely certain that he was capable
of handling an argument with a fiery dragon? He would have given much
for a little previous experience of this sort of thing. It was too late
now, but he wished he had had the forethought to get Merlin to put up a
magic prescription for him, rendering him immune to dragon-bites. But
did dragons bite? Or did they whack at you with their tails? Or just
blow fire?
There were a dozen such points that he would have liked to have settled
before starting.
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