CHAPTER XIV.
THE SNAKE AND THE SWORD.
The dak-bungalow again at last! But how terribly dreary, depressing, and horrible it looked now—the hut that had once seemed a kind of heaven on earth to the starving wanderer. Then, Lucille was thousands of miles away (geographically, and millions of miles away in imagination). Now, she was but thirty miles away—and it was almost more than human endurance could bear…. Should he turn back even now, ride straight to Kot Ghazi, fall at her feet and say: “I can struggle no longer. Come back to Monksmead—and let what will be, be. I have no more courage.”
And go mad, one day, and kill her? Keep sane, and sully her fair name? On to the hovel. Rest for the night, and, at dawn, strike into the desert and there let what will be, be.
Making the camel kneel, Damocles de Warrenne removed its saddle, fastened its rein-cord tightly to a post, fed it, and then detached the saddle-bags that hung flatly on either side of the saddle frame, as well as a patent-leather sword-cover which contained a sword of very different pattern from that for which it had been made.
Entering the hut, of which the doors and windows were bolted on the outside, he flung open the shutters of the glassless windows, lit a candle, and prepared to eat a frugal meal. From the saddlebags he took bread, eggs, chocolate, sardines, biscuits and apples. With a mixture of permanganate of potash, tea and cold water from the well, if the puddle at the bottom of a deep hole could be so termed, he made a drink that, while drinkable by one who has known worse, was unlikely to cause an attack upon an enfeebled constitution, of cholera, enteric, dysentery or any other of India’s specialities. What would he not have given for a clean whisky-and-soda in the place of the nauseating muck—but what should be the end of a man who, in his position, turned to alcohol for help and comfort? “The last state of that man …”
After striking a judicious balance between what he should eat for dinner and what he should reserve for breakfast, he fell to, ate sparingly, lit his pipe, and gazed around the wretched room, of which the walls were blue-washed with a most offensive shade of blue, the bare floor was frankly dry mud and dust, the roof was bare cob-webbed thatch and rafter, and the furniture a rickety table, a dangerous-looking cane-bottomed settee and a leg-rest arm-chair from which some one had removed the leg-rests. Had some scoundrelly oont-wallah pinched them for fuel? (No, Damocles, an ex-Colonel of the Indian Medical Service “pinched” them for splints.) A most depressing human habitation even for the most cheerful and care-free of souls, a terrible place for a man in a dangerous mental state of unstable equilibrium and cruel agony…. Only thirty miles away—and a camel at the door. Lucille still within a night’s ride. Lucille and absolute joy…. The desert and certain death—a death of which she must be assured, that in time she might marry Ormonde Delorme or some such sound, fine man. Abdul must find his body—and it must be the body not of an obvious suicide, but of a man who, lost in the desert, had evidently travelled in circles, trying to find his way to the hut he had left, on a shooting expedition. Yes—he knew all about travelling in circles—and what he had done in ignorance (as well as in agony and horror), he would now do intentionally and with grim purpose. Hard on the poor camel!… Perhaps he could manage so that it was set free in time to find its way back somehow. It would if it were loosed within smell of water…. He must die fairly and squarely of hunger and thirst—no blowing out of brains or throat-cutting, no trace of suicide; just lost, poor chap, and no more to be said…. Death of thirst—in that awful desert—again—No! God in Heaven he had faced the actual pangs of it once, and escaped—he could not face it again—he wasn’t strong enough … and the unhappy man sprang to his feet to rush from the room and saddle-up the camel for—Life and Lucille—and then his eye fell on the Sword, the Sword of his Fathers, brought to him by Lucille, who had said, “Have it with you always, Dearest. It can talk to you, as even I can not….”
He sat down and drew it from the incongruous modern case and from its scabbard. Ha! What did it say but “Honour!” What was its message but “Do the right thing. Death is nothing—Honour is everything. Be worthy of your Name, your Traditions, your Ancestors—”
He would die.
Let him die that Lucille’s honour, Lucille’s happiness, Lucille’s welfare, might live—and he kissed the hilt of the Sword as he had so often done in childhood. Having removed boots, leggings and socks, he lay down on the settee—innocent of bedding and pillows, pulled over him the coat that had been rolled and strapped trooper-fashion behind the saddle and fell asleep….
And dreamed that he was shut naked in a tiny cell with a gigantic python upon whose yard-long fangs he was about to be impaled and, as usual, awoke trembling and bathed in perspiration, with dry mouth and throbbing head, sickness, and tingling extremities.
The wind had got up and had blown out the candle which should have lasted till dawn!…
As he lay shaking, terrified (uncertain as to whether he were a soul in torment or a human being still alive), and debating as to whether he could get off the couch, relight the candle, and close the windward window, he heard a sound that caused his heart to miss a beat and his hair to rise on end. A strange, dry rustle merged in the sound of paper being dragged across the floor, and he knew that he was shut in with a snake, shut up in a blue room, cut off from the matches on the table, and doomed to lie and await the Death he dreaded more than ten thousand others—or, going mad, to rush upon that Death.
He was shut in with the SNAKE. At last it had come for him in its own concrete form and had him bound and gagged by fascination and fear—in the Dark, the awful cruel Dark. No more mere myrmidons. The SNAKE ITSELF.
He tried to scream and could not. He tried to strike out at an imaginary serpent-head, huge as an elephant, that reared itself above him—and could not.
He could not even draw his bare foot in under the overcoat. And steadily the paper dragged across the floor … Was it approaching? Was it progressing round and round by the walls? Would the Snake find the bed and climb on to it? Would it coil round his throat and gaze with-luminescent eyes into his, and torture him thus for hours ere thrusting its fangs into his brain? Would it coil up and sleep upon his body for hours before doing so, knowing that he could not move? Here were his Snake-Dreams realized, and in the actual flesh he lay awake and conscious, and could neither move nor cry aloud!
In the Dark he lay bound and gagged, in a blue-walled room, and the Snake enveloped him with its Presence, and he could in no wise save himself.
Oh, God, why let a sentient creature suffer thus? He himself would have shot any human being guilty of inflicting a tithe of the agony on a pariah dog. There could be no God!… and then the beams of the rising moon fell upon the blade of the Sword, making it shine like a lamp, and, with a roar as of a charging lion, Damocles de Warrenne sprang from the bed, seized it by the hilt, and was aware, without a tremor, of a cobra that reared itself before him in the moonlight, swaying in the Dance of Death.
With a mere flick of the sword he laid the reptile twitching on the floor—and for a few minutes was madder with Joy than ever in his life he had been with Fear.
For Fear was gone. The World of Woe had fallen from his shoulders. The Snake was to him but a wretched reptile whose head he would crush ere it bruised his heel. He was sane—he was safe—he was a Man again, and ere many days were past he would be the husband of Lucille and the master of Monksmead.
“Oh, God forgive me for a blind, rebellious worm,” he prayed. “Forgive me, and strike not this cup from my lips. You would not punish the blasphemy of a madman? I cannot pray in ordered forms, but I beg forgiveness for my hasty cry ‘There is on God’ …” and then pressed the Sword to his lips—the Sword that, under God, had overthrown the Snake for ever, saved his reason—and given him Lucille….
With the Sword in his hand he lay on the bed once more, and slept the sweet, dreamless sleep of a healthy, happy child. In the morning, when he awoke, his eyes fell upon the still living cobra that appeared to watch him with the hate of a baffled Lucifer as it lay broken-backed, impotent, and full of vicious fury.
Rising, Damocles de Warrenne stepped across to the reptile, and, with a quick snatch, seized it behind the head and raised it from the ground. Staring into its baleful, evil-looking eyes, he remarked:—
“Well, mine ancient enemy and almost victor! I’m not of a particularly vengeful disposition, but I fancy a few of your brethren have got to die before I leave India. Why, you poor wretched worm, you miserable maggot,—to think what I have suffered” and he angrily dashed it on the ground and spurned it with his foot.
“Easy to do that when your back’s broken, you think?” he continued. “Right-O, my lad, wait till I find your mate, and we’ll see. Hand to hand, no weapons—my quickness and strength against his quickness and venom. Snakes! The paltriest things that crawl”—and he kicked the reptile into a corner and burst into song as he busied himself about preparations for washing, food for himself and the camel, and—return. After enough food to hearten them both for the thirty-mile journey he would go as fast as camel’s legs could move to Lucille and the announcement that would send her frantic with joy. He would take her in his arms—then they would waltz for an hour to keep themselves from behaving like lunatics…. Fear was dead! The SNAKE was dead—killed by the SWORD, the Sword that Lucille had brought, and thereby saved him! Madness was dead! Joy, Peace, Sanity, Health were come—the wedding-bells were trembling to burst into peals of joyous announcement.
He would, for Lucille’s sake and the names of de Warrenne and Stukeley, show whether he was a Coward or a snake-fearing Lunatic, an epileptic, an unfit-to-marry monstrosity and freak. He would show the Harley Street physicians how much he feared snakes, and would challenge them to an undertaking which would give them food for thought before acceptance…. Where were his boots? He must fly to Lucille!…
And then the galloping hoofs of a horse were heard thudding towards the hut, and, hastening to the door, he saw Lucille whipping a lathered horse.
Rushing towards her he shouted:—
“Will you marry me to-morrow? Will you marry me to-day, Lucille?” and, as she pulled her horse in, he darted back into the room and reappeared twirling a twitching cobra by its tail, and laughing uproariously….
Lucille appeared to be about to faint as he dropped it, seized her in his arms, and said:—
“Darling, I am cured! I have not the slightest fear of snakes. The Sword has saved me. I am a Man again.”
He told her all as she sat laughing and sobbing for joy and the dying snake lay at their feet.
In her heart of hearts Lucille determined that the wedding should take place immediately, so that if this were but a temporary respite, the result of the flash of daring inspired by the Sword, she would have the right to care for him for the rest of his life … She would——
“Look!” she suddenly shrieked, and pointed to where, in the doorway, cutting them off from escape, was the mate of the cobra that lay mangled before them. Had the injured reptile in some way called its mate—or were they regular inhabitants of this deserted hut?
It was Lucille’s first experience of cobras and she shuddered to see the second—evidently comprehending, aggressive, vengeful—would it spring from there … and the Sword lay on the bed, out of reach.
Dam arose with a laugh, picked up his heavy boot as he did so, and, all in one swift movement, hurled it at the half-coiled swaying creature, with the true aim of the first-class cricketer and trained athlete; then, following his boot with a leap, he snatched at the tail of the coiling, thrashing reptile and “cracked” the snake as a carter cracks a whip—whereafter it dangled limp and dead from his hand! Lucille shrieked, paled, and sprang towards him.
“Oh, Dam!” she cried, “how could you!”
“Pooh, Kiddy,” he replied. “I’m going to invite the Harley Street cove to have a match at that—and I’m going to give a little exhibition of it on the lawn at Monksmead—to all the good folk who witnessed my disgrace…. What’s a snake after all? It’s my turn now;” and Lucille’s heart was at rest and very thankful. This was not a temporary “cure”. Oh, thank God for her inspiration anent the Sword … Thank God, thank God!…