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?