“Eureka sees better in the dark than we can,” whispered Dorothy.  “Tell us, dear, what do the creatures look like?” she asked, addressing her pet.

“I simply can’t describe ’em,” answered the kitten, shuddering.  “Their eyes are like pie-plates and their mouths like coal-scuttles.  But their bodies don’t seem very big.”

“Where are they?” enquired the girl.

“They are in little pockets all around the edge of this cavern.  Oh, Dorothy—­you can’t imagine what horrid things they are!  They’re uglier than the Gargoyles.”

“Tut-tut! be careful how you criticise your neighbors,” spoke a rasping voice near by.  “As a matter of fact you are rather ugly-looking creatures yourselves, and I’m sure mother has often told us we were the loveliest and prettiest things in all the world.”

Hearing these words our friends turned in the direction of the sound, and the Wizard held his lanterns so that their light would flood one of the little pockets in the rock.

“Why, it’s a dragon!” he exclaimed.

“No,” answered the owner of the big yellow eyes which were blinking at them so steadily; “you are wrong about that.  We hope to grow to be dragons some day, but just now we’re only dragonettes.”

“What’s that?” asked Dorothy, gazing fearfully at the great scaley head, the yawning mouth and the big eyes.

“Young dragons, of course; but we are not allowed to call ourselves real dragons until we get our full growth,” was the reply.  “The big dragons are very proud, and don’t think children amount to much; but mother says that some day we will all be very powerful and important.”

“Where is your mother?” asked the Wizard, anxiously looking around.

“She has gone up to the top of the earth to hunt for our dinner.  If she has good luck she will bring us an elephant, or a brace of rhinoceri, or perhaps a few dozen people to stay our hunger.”

“Oh; are you hungry?” enquired Dorothy, drawing back.

“Very,” said the dragonette, snapping its jaws.

“And—­and—­do you eat people?”

“To be sure, when we can get them.  But they’ve been very scarce for a few years and we usually have to be content with elephants or buffaloes,” answered the creature, in a regretful tone.

“How old are you?” enquired Zeb, who stared at the yellow eyes as if fascinated.

“Quite young, I grieve to say; and all of my brothers and sisters that you see here are practically my own age.  If I remember rightly, we were sixty-six years old the day before yesterday.”

“But that isn’t young!” cried Dorothy, in amazement.

“No?” drawled the dragonette; “it seems to me very babyish.”

“How old is your mother?” asked the girl.

“Mother’s about two thousand years old; but she carelessly lost track of her age a few centuries ago and skipped several hundreds.  She’s a little fussy, you know, and afraid of growing old, being a widow and still in her prime.”