But once they were outside, and
the good night wind rushed against his face, a great intoxicating joy
came over him. He wanted to dance and shout. The Dragon was dead. No
one could frighten them again.
"Aren't we ever coming back, Christine?"
"No, dear, I don't think so."
He looked back at the grim, high house. For a moment a sorrow as deep
as joy rushed over him. It was as though he knew that something
besides the Dragon had died up there in that dimly lit room--as though
he were saying good-bye to something he would never find, though he
hunted the world over.
He had been a little boy. He would never be quite a little boy again.
Or perhaps the Dragon wasn't dead at all--perhaps Dragons never died,
but lived on and on, hiding in secret places, waiting to pounce out on
you and drag you back.
He seized Christine's hand.
"Let's run," he whispered. "Let's run fast."
II
1
He discovered that there were people in the world who could make scenes
without noise. They were like the crocodiles he had met on his visit
to the Zoo, lying malignantly inert in their oily water. But one
twitch of the tail, one blink of a lightless eye, was more terrifying
than the roar of a lion.
No one made a noise in Christine's home. The two sisters looked at
Robert as though he were a small but disagreeable smell that they tried
politely to ignore. They asked him if he wanted a second helping in
voices of glacial courtesy.
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