around, humming to myself with a dégagé air, and creating a mighty splash every time I came near his side of the lake. He was a nimble-footed youth, though, so I didn’t succeed in dampening either his enthusiasm or his robes.
The second time I even deigned to speak to him, for twenty years without talking had been rather trying to a female of my temperament. And the local peasantry could not speak Dragon language, which was reserved for the nobility and gentry and, of course, dragons.
“Ho, varlet!” I said, trying to deluge him.
“Ha, hussy!” he retorted, springing aside.
The next time I appeared, he didn’t show up at all. I began to think something had gone wrong with his plans for immortality, and I was glad. Only . . . he was the last remaining person of my acquaintance who could speak Dragon; in fact, he was the last remaining person of my acquaintance.
Apparently his spells were still working, however, for he did turn up a decade later. “Oh, good morrow, Suleiman,” I said, throwing water at him. “Prithee, what is new?”
He leaped away, but was it my imagination or did a spot of moisture dabble the purple velvet of his robe? “Good morrow, cot-quean,” he replied. “Nothing of import. I believe some bastard from Normandy conquered the Saxons last year.”
I snorted contemptuously. “Oh, those Southerners — anybody can conquer them!”
Suleiman didn’t show for forty years. When he came, I was almost—not quite, mind you, but almost—glad to see him.
“I have come to gloat,” he announced.
“Gloat away!” I splashed enthusiastically. He was absolutely drenched. “How now!” I exclaimed. “What hath befallen your erstwhile agility, Suleiman?”
“I’ve been sick,” he explained.
But he didn’t come again. So I was all by myself in the lake for eight hundred and fifty years. However, I always say if one has inner spiritual resources one is never really alone.
Which brings us up to date.
One morning in 1957 came der tag. I smoothed down my scales, got my flame-thrower in working order and sallied forth to the surface ready to dazzle the world. By now I had virtually given up all hope of finding a prince and was interested primarily in frightening tourists. That always entertained me.
It was spring. The heather was in bloom. And there on the bank stood a prince.
