But nobody listened to them.  At night, the sea gleamed, reflecting the thousands of bonfires and torchlights on the beach.

Deep in the water, the dragon, with his prize at his side, was again ill at ease.  The sea could not drown out either the noises or the lights.  This was an unexpected turn of events, something disturbingly unnatural.

He had thought that by snatching the girl away from the people he could awaken them from their silly dreams and give them their sound common sense again, thus driving them back to their muddy existence.

He knew that he could hold on forever to his booty if he wished, enjoying her all by himself, ignoring the noises, the tumult outside.  He could also terrorize the people and disperse them easily.

However, he realized that doing either of these things would only hasten and embitter the radical change that was already taking place in the relationship between himself and men, and among men themselves.  There was no turning back the clock.

Any move on his part contrary to the wishes of the people would only worsen the matter, which might lead in the end to his own doom.  Sensibly, he decided to give up at an early stage.  The beauty was thus quietly returned to the overjoyed crowd.

This was, so far as I could glean, how we won our first fight with the dragon—without a hero, lacking sanguine glories and leaving no sanguinary memories.

However, this also seems to explain why we erected no monument and wrote no poems about the incident and, further, why there has never been an ensuing round in the fight that should, perhaps, have gone on.

Ra Jong Yil is dean of the graduate school at Kyung Hee University in Seoul, Korea.