Today is Monday.
The next day, all the villagers went up to the hill to watch the fight between St. George and the dragon. The boy sat in front of the crowd. St. George rode his charming warhorse slowly to the cave. The boy was anxious about whether the dragon would do like they had discussed last night, fidgeting where he sat. He need not have distressed himself, had he only known. The dramatic possibilities of the thing had tickled the dragon immensely, and he had been up from an early hour, preparing for his first public appearance. He rised himself and then a cloud of smoke obscured the mouth of the cave, and out of the midst of it the dragon himself, shining, sea-blue, magnificent, pranced splendidly forth. Surprising the crowd, his scales were glittering, his long spiky tail lashed his sides, his claws tore up the turf and sent it flying high over his back, and smoke and fire incessantly jetted from his angry nostrils. St. George lowered his spear, bent his head, dug his heels into his horse's sides, and came thundering over the turf.
