“From what I have seen of the people of this town,” said the monster, “I do not think I could relish any thing which was prepared by them.  They appear to be all cowards, and, therefore, mean and selfish.  As for eating one of them, old or young, I could not think of it for a moment.  In fact, there was only one creature in the whole place for whom I could have had any appetite, and that is the Minor Canon, who has gone away.  He was brave, and good, and honest, and I think I should have relished him.”

“Ah!” said one of the old men very politely, “in that case I wish we had not sent him to the dreadful wilds!”

“What!” cried the Griffin.  “What do you mean?  Explain instantly what you are talking about!”

The old man, terribly frightened at what he had said, was obliged to tell how the Minor Canon had been sent away by the people, in the hope that the Griffin might be induced to follow him.

When the monster heard this, he became furiously angry.  He dashed away from the old men and, spreading his wings, flew backward and forward over the town.  He was so much excited that his tail became red-hot, and glowed like a meteor against the evening sky.  When at last he settled down in the little field where he usually rested, and thrust his tail into the brook, the steam arose like a cloud, and the water of the stream ran hot through the town.  The citizens were greatly frightened, and bitterly blamed the old man for telling about the Minor Canon.

“It is plain,” they said, “that the Griffin intended at last to go and look for him, and we should have been saved.  Now who can tell what misery you have brought upon us.”

The Griffin did not remain long in the little field.  As soon as his tail was cool he flew to the town-hall and rang the bell.  The citizens knew that they were expected to come there, and although they were afraid to go, they were still more afraid to stay away; and they crowded into the hall.  The Griffin was on the platform at one end, flapping his wings and walking up and down, and the end of his tail was still so warm that it slightly scorched the boards as he dragged it after him.

When everybody who was able to come was there, the Griffin stood still and addressed the meeting.

“I have had a contemptible opinion of you,” he said, “ever since I discovered what cowards you are, but I had no idea that you were so ungrateful, selfish, and cruel, as I now find you to be.  Here was your Minor Canon, who labored day and night for your good, and thought of nothing else but how he might benefit you and make you happy; and as soon as you imagine yourselves threatened with a danger,—­for well I know you are dreadfully afraid of me,—­you send him off, caring not whether he returns or perishes, hoping thereby to save yourselves.  Now, I had conceived a great liking for that young man, and had intended, in a day or two, to go and look him up.  But I have changed my mind about him.  I shall