IT was an awful sight to behold! When the Remora heard the name of the
Firedrake, his hated enemy, he slipped with wonderful speed from the
cleft of the mountain into the valley. On and on and on he poured over
rock and tree, as if a frozen river could slide downhill; on and on,
till there were miles of him stretching along the valley--miles of the
smooth-ribbed, icy creature, crawling and slipping forwards. The green
trees dropped their leaves as he advanced; the birds fell down dead
from the sky, slain by his frosty breath! But, fast as the Remora stole
forward, the Firedrake came quicker yet, flying and clashing his fiery
wings. At last they were within striking distance; and the Firedrake,
stooping from the air, dashed with his burning horns and flaming feet
slap into the body of the Remora.
Then there rose a steam so dreadful, such a white yet fiery vapour of
heat, that no one who had not the prince’s magic glass could have seen
what happened. With horrible grunts and roars the Firedrake tried to
burn his way right through the flat body of the Remora, and to chase him
to his cleft in the rock. But the Remora, hissing terribly, and visibly
melting away in places, yet held his ground; and the prince could see
his cold white folds climbing slowly up the hoofs of the Firedrake--up
and up, till they reached his knees, and the great burning beast roared
like a hundred bulls with the pain. Then up the Firedrake leaped, and
hovering on his fiery wings, he lighted in the midst of the Remora’s
back, and dashed into it with his horns. But the flat, cruel head
writhed backwards, and, slowly bending over on itself, the wounded
Remora slid greedily to fasten again on the limbs of the Firedrake.
Meanwhile, the prince, safe on his hill, was lunching on the loaf and
the cold tongue he had brought with him.
“Go it, Remora! Go it, Firedrake! you’re gaining. Give it him, Remora!”
he shouted in the wildest excitement.
Nobody had ever seen such a battle; he had it all to himself, and he
never enjoyed anything more. He hated the Remora so much, that he almost
wished the Firedrake could beat it; for the Firedrake was the more
natural beast of the pair. Still, he was alarmed when he saw that
the vast flat body of the Remora was now slowly coiling backwards,
backwards, into the cleft below the hill; while a thick wet mist showed
how cruelly it had suffered. But the Firedrake, too, was in an unhappy
way; for his legs were now cold and black, his horns were black also,
though his body, especially near the heart, glowed still like red-hot
iron.
“Go it, Remora!” cried the prince: “his legs are giving way; he’s groggy
on his pins! One more effort, and he won’t be able to move!”
Encouraged by this advice, the white, slippery Remora streamed out of
his cavern again, more and more of him uncoiling, as if the mountain
were quite full of him. He had lost strength, no doubt: for the steam
and mist went up from him in clouds, and the hissing of his angry voice
grew fainter; but so did the roars of the Firedrake. Presently they
sounded more like groans; and at last the Remora slipped up his legs
above the knees, and fastened on his very heart of fire. Then the
Firedrake stood groaning like a black bull, knee-deep in snow; and still
the Remora climbed and climbed.
“Go it now, Firedrake!” shouted the prince; for he knew that if the
Remora won, it would be too cold for him to draw near the place, and cut
off the Firedrake’s head and tail.
“Go it, Drake! he’s slackening!” cried the prince again; and the brave
Firedrake made one last furious effort, and rising on his wings, dropped
just on the spine of his enemy.
The wounded Remora curled back his head again on himself, and again
crawled, steaming terribly, towards his enemy. But the struggle was
too much for the gallant Remora. The flat, cruel head moved slower; the
steam from his thousand wounds grew fiercer; and he gently breathed his
last just as the Firedrake, too, fell over and lay exhausted. With
one final roar, like the breath of a thousand furnaces, the Firedrake
expired.
[Illustration: Page 58]
The prince, watching from the hill-top, could scarcely believe that
these two _awful scourges of Nature_, which had so long devastated his
country, were actually dead. But when he had looked on for half-an-hour,
and only a river ran where the Remora had been, while the body of the
Firedrake lay stark and cold, he hurried to the spot.
Drawing the sword of sharpness, he hacked off, at two blows, the iron
head and the tail of the Firedrake. They were a weary weight to carry;
but in a few strides of the shoes of swiftness he was at his castle,
where he threw down his burden, and nearly fainted with excitement and
fatigue.
But the castle clock struck half-past seven; dinner was at eight, and
the poor prince crawled on hands and knees to the garret. Here he put
on the wishing-cap; wished for a pint of champagne, a hot bath, and his
best black velvet and diamond suit. In a moment these were provided; he
bathed, dressed, drank a glass of wine, packed up the head and tail of
the Firedrake; sat down on the flying carpet, and knocked at the door of
the English Ambassador as the clocks were striking eight’ in Gluckstein.
_Punctuality is the politeness of princes_; and a prince _is_ polite
when he is in love!
The prince was received at the door by a stout porter and led into the
hall, where _several_ butlers met him, and he laid the mortal remains of
the Firedrake under the cover of the flying carpet.
Then he was led upstairs, and he made his bow to the pretty lady, who,
of course, made him a magnificent courtesy. She seemed prettier and
kinder than ever. The prince was so happy, that he never noticed how
something went wrong about the dinner. The ambassador looked about, and
seemed to miss someone, and spoke in a low voice to one of the servants,
who answered also in a low voice, and what he said seemed to displease
the ambassador. But the prince was so busy in talking to his lady, and
in eating his dinner too, that he never observed anything unusual. He
had _never_ been at such a pleasant dinner!
[Illustration: Chapter Twelve]