Singularly horrific was a neo-dragon called the tarasque.  It was spawned by the biblical monster Leviathan and originally lived in Galatia, in Asia Minor, but had come to haunt the banks of the River Rhone between Avignon and Arles in southern France.

One evening as the shadow of night was falling, a traveler named Jacques du Bois quickened his step as he journeyed along the bank of the river.  Nervously, he scanned its sable waters and the forbidding gloom of the fringing forest--his eyes questing for something that he fervently prayed he would not have the misfortune to see.

Du Bois had heard terrifying rumors that a hideous creature called the tarasque had taken up residence along this stretch of the river.  Here it held in thrall the hapless populace of nearby Nerluc, a once tranquil country town whose inhabitants and livestock were now the focus of its relentless depredations.  But it also devoured any unfortunate wayfarer passing that way who was unwary enough not to perceive the proximity of this rapacious monster.

Distracted by such grisly thoughts flowing unchecked through his mind, the traveler fatally ignored a deep, thunderous rumble emanating from a shadowy glade just ahead.  Suddenly, the forest seemed to erupt, disgorging from its hidden depths a macabre vision spawned by the darkest and most bizarre of nightmares.

Larger in size than the biggest horse or burliest ox, the tarasque stood on six powerful limbs equipped with the murderous paws of a giant bear, and furiously switched its long viperine tail from side to side like living whipcord.  The magnificent mane of its leonine head flowed like a burnished golden sea around its shoulders, and its teeth were great ivory daggers of death.  Most extraordinary of all, however, was the massive carapace encrusting its back.  Resembling the shell of a colossal tortoise, it bristled with an armory of mighty spikes, rendering the monster invincible to any form of attack.

It was for good reason, therefore, that the ill-fated Jacques du Bois knew his life to be at an end--an end so swift that he did not even have time to scream.  As he gazed motionless at his destroyer, like a songbird mesmerized by the hypnotic stare of a serpent, the tarasque opened its fearsome jaws and let out a deafening roar, accompanied by a stream of fire that curled around its luckless victim and ignited his flesh like tender.

As time went by, the people of Nerluc grew more and more desperate to be free from the tarasque's unremitting tyranny.  On one occasion, 16 of the bravest men marched out to do battle with their adversary--but to no avail.  In a matter of moments, half of their number had been incinerated by a single blast of flame belched from the monster's gullet, and the remaining eight fled back to the town, fortunate to have survived their ordeal.

Nerluc seemed doomed and destined for destruction; but then someone came along who may well have seemed, at least to an outsider, to be the most unlikely vanquisher of dragons.  One day, a small boat docked at Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, and out of it stepped a young, lissom maiden, fresh faced and wearing a simple dress of pure white.  Her fame had spread far and wide, for this unassuming figure, with her gentle demeanor, was St. Martha, whose inspirational preaching and acts of selfless beneficence had brought joy and hope to all who met her.

As soon as her arrival became known, the townspeople of Nerluc flocked to meet her and tearfully implored her to free them from the terrible oppression of the tarasque.  St. Martha promised to do everything she could to help them and, without further ado, she walked through the outlying fields toward the forest bordering the river that harbored her terrifying quarry.

She did not have to search for long.  Within only a few minutes of entering the woodland, she spied the tarasque in a sunlit clearing, where it was devouring the remains of its latest victim, a local herdsman.

So intent was the monster upon its gory repast that it remained totally unaware of her presence, enabling the saint to approach to within an arm's length of its gleaming carapace and rippling mane and also to pick up two branches that had recently been charred by its fiery breath.  At that moment, however, the tarasque sensed her presence and whirled around, its eyes blazing.  Instantly, Martha raised the two branches and held them before her monstrous adversary in the shape of the Cross.

As she did so, the tarasque's eyes dimmed, their incandescence replaced by a mellow golden hue, and the mighty creature lay passively at the saint's feet, overcome by bemusement and unwonted peace.  Martha bent down and sprinkled holy water all over the subdued dragon.  Then she wove a huge collar with braids of her hair and led the tarasque amiably back to Nerluc.

This astonishing spectacle--the bloodthirsty tarasque, tethered and docile as a tame puppy--initially rendered the townspeople speechless and immobile.  Once their fear of their longstanding enemy had subsided, however, they grew bolder, coming up to the beast and touching it, then hitting, punching, and kicking it, and hurling rocks and sticks at it, as their anger at its former atrocities burst forth in an uncontrollable tide of hatred and revenge.

The tarasque cowered in fright at this sustained onslaught, and St. Martha pleaded with the horde to forgive the beast and let it live in its new, transformed state; but it was too late.  Whether due to direct physical attack or to the almost tangible weight of loathing heaped upon it, the tarasque suddenly rolled over and died.

Memory of this monster is manifest even today.  As a lasting reminder of its former tribulations, Nerluc is now called Tarascon, and it stages a tarasque festival each Whitsun, while the town's official seal depicts the former oppressor in all its terrible splendor.