As soon as this was realized, there was obviously only one thing to do, and the King gave his consent to it, though sorely against his will. Anyone, of whatever station in life, who could kill the Dragon, should marry the Princess and have half the kingdom as well.
As always when a last desperate step is taken, hope surged up to greet the new proposal. It was obviously the right solution; why had no one thought of it before, and saved all this bloodshed? Enthusiasm ran high; combats were of almost daily occurrence; and in each one, though the upshot was always the same, the newspapers (seeing that they ran no risk, the public was again admitted to the scene) found some encouraging circumstance: the Dragon had lost a tooth, or its inky crest was streaked with grey, or it was a second late in appearing, or it was fat and slow with good living, or it had grinned and looked almost benevolent. The unfortunate heroes had displayed this one a neat piece of foot-work, that, a shrewd thrust which might have pierced the side of a ship: while they were all commended for some original phrase, some prettily-turned compliment in the address to the Princess.
Not the least part of the whole ordeal was the framing of this preliminary speech; it was the only way by which the competitors could measure their skill against each other, since their performances against the Dragon hardly differed at all. There was no doubt the Dragon disliked hearing the Princess praised; the more ardent and graceful the language in which she was wooed, the more vigorous was its onslaught.
Leo, Conrad’s brother, was one of the first to volunteer, but his actual encounter with the Dragon tarried because he lacked scholarship to put into words the love that burned in him. But his production, to judge from the zest with which the monster gobbled him up, must have had some literary merit. Conrad missed his fiery, impatient brother. Little had his parents realized that the Dragon, which had seemed an affair for Kings and Queens and Governments, would take its toll from them. But their pride in their son’s sacrifice upheld them, and lessened their grief.
Conrad, however, grew more despondent daily. He dreaded lest Rudolph, his favourite brother, should take it into his head to challenge the Dragon. Rudolph was less hot-headed than Leo and—surely a great safeguard—he was engaged to be married. Married men were prohibited (or, as Conrad put it to himself, exempted) from Dragon-baiting—though more than one, concealing his true condition, had gone out to meet a bachelor’s death.
Conrad lost no opportunity of urging the charms of Charlotte, his brother’s sweetheart; in and out of season he proclaimed them and begged Rudolph to marry her. In his anxiety for his brother’s safety he more than once let drop a disparaging remark about the Princess, comparing her unfavourably to Charlotte. Rudolph told him to shut up or he would get himself into trouble: a madman who had spoken disrespectfully of the Princess had been torn to pieces by the mob.
‘Of course the Princess is beautiful,’ Conrad admitted, ‘but she is fair: you told me you only admired dark women. Promise me you will marry Charlotte before the month is out.’
‘How can I?’ asked Rudolph, ‘when I’ve no money and no home to take her to?’
Conrad knew that this was not strictly true; his brother was a gay young man, but he had some money laid by. Conrad, though he earned little, spent nothing at all.
‘If you marry her a fortnight from to-day,’ he begged, ‘you shall all my savings, and I will be a forester instead of going to the University.’
It cost him something to say this, but Rudolph answered with his light laugh:
‘Keep your money, my dear Conrad, you will want it when your comes to fight the Dragon.’
This was not very encouraging, and Conrad began to ask himself was there no other way of keeping Rudolph out of harm’s reach. The King had offered an enormous prize to anyone who could suggest a solution to the Dragon problem, and many women, cripples, elderly men and confirmed husbands had sent in suggestions. One was that the intending suitor should visit the castle in disguise. This was turned down because, even if the man got safely in, the Dragon would still be at large. Another proposed that the Royal Magician should give place to one more competent. To this the Home Secretary replied that it was a bad plan to change horses in mid-stream; the Magician had a worldwide reputation; he had performed many noteworthy feats in the past, he knew the lay-out of the castle as no one else did, and he was a close friend of Princess Hermione: it would be cruel to deprive her of his presence.
Most of the proposals, though meant helpfully, only put the authorities’ backs up, implying as they did some dissatisfaction with the way things were being handled. One malcontent even dared to remark that at this rate the Princess would never get married. The newspapers made fun of him and he lost his job.
‘If only I could get inside the castle,’ thought Conrad, ‘I might be able to do something. But I shall have to be very tactful.’
He began to write, but the pen would not answer to his thoughts. It seemed to have a will of its own, which was struggling against his. Instead of the valuable suggestion he wanted to make, a message of very different import kept appearing on the paper, in broken phrases like, ‘my life to your service,’ ‘no better death than this.’ Tired of trying to control it, he let the pen run on; when it stopped, he found he had written a little love-address to the Princess, very like those printed between heavy black lines (almost every day now) in the memorial columns of the newspapers. Puzzled, he threw the thing aside and applied himself to his task. Now it went better; he signed it, wrote ‘The Princess Hermione’ on the envelope and took it to the post. It would be some days before it reached her, if it ever did; she must have so many letters to deal with.
When he got home he found Rudolph in the room. He was standing by the table holding something in his hand.
‘Ha, ha!’ said he, ‘I’ve found you out.’
Conrad could not imagine what he meant.
‘Yes,’ went on Rudolph, putting his hands behind his back .’You’ve been deceiving me. You’re in love with the Princess. You’ve been trying to persuade me not to fight the Dragon because you want the glory of killing it yourself.’
Rudolph was laughing, but Conrad cried out in agitation, ‘No, no, you don’t understand.’
‘Well, listen then,’ said Rudolph, and he began to read Conrad’s declaration of love to the Princess; mockingly at first, then more seriously, and finally with a break in his voice and tears standing in his eyes.
They were silent for a moment, then Conrad held out his hand for the paper. But Rudolph would not part with it.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Conrad pleaded. ‘Give it to me.’
‘What do you want it for?’ asked Rudolph.
‘I want to burn it!’ cried Conrad recklessly.
‘No, no!’ said Rudolph, half laughing and gently pushing his brother away. ‘I must have it—it may come in useful—who knows.’
He went out, taking the paper with him. Conrad felt uncomfortable; somehow he guessed he had done a silly thing.
He had. Two days later Rudolph casually announced that he had sent in his name as a candidate for the privilege of freeing Princess Hermione from her tormentor and that his application had been accepted.
‘It’s fixed for Thursday,’ he remarked gaily. ‘Poor old Dragon.’
His mother burst into tears, his father left the room and did not come back for an hour; but Conrad sat in his chair, without noticing what was going on round him. At last he said:
‘What about Charlotte?’
‘Oh,’ said Rudolph airily, ‘she’s anxious for me to go. She’s not like you pretend to be. She’s sorry for the Princess. “I expected you’d want to go,” she said to me. “I shall be waiting for you when you come back.” ’
‘Was that all?’ asked Conrad.
‘Oh, she gave me her blessing.’