Then at the last step the Dragon fell, and Robert was awake. He sat
bolt upright. There had been no mistaking that dull thump. It
lingered in his ears like the echo of a thunder-clap. The Dragon had
fallen and killed himself, for he did not move. It was pitch dark in
the room, but very slowly and quietly, under the pressure of an
invisible hand, the door opposite his bed began to open. The light
outside made a widening slit in the darkness. It was like sitting in a
theatre watching the curtain go up on a nightmare. He could see the
banisters, the glow from the hall beneath, and something black with a
white smudge at the end of it lying stretched out from the head of the
stairs. His body crawled out of bed. He himself wanted to hide under
the clothes, but his body would not let him. It carried him on against
his will. When he was near enough he saw that the long black thing was
a man's arm and the white smudge a hand, clenched and inert, on the red
carpet. His body tottered out on the landing. It was his father lying
stretched on the stairs, face downwards.

He tried to scream, but his throat and tongue were dry and swollen.
Nor could he touch that still thing, in its passivity more terrible
than in its violence. He was afraid that every moment it would lift
its face, and show him some new unthinkable horror. He skirted it as
though it might leap upon him and devour him, and rushed downstairs,
faster and faster, with a thousand devils hunting at his heels.

And then he seemed again to be dreaming. The bailiff ran up from the
kitchen in his shirt-sleeves, and he and Edith went up the stairs
together, leaving him alone in the library. The fire had gone out, but
he cowered up against the grate, hiding his face in his arms.

They were moving the Dragon. Bump--bump--bump--bump. He thought he