t at that time.
But for the fact that she knew exactly where everything was, and could
put her hand on what she wanted, she would not have entered without a
light.

For some minutes the unfortunate lady stood on the stool.

Having completed her task she stepped down backwards and, as her foot
touched the ground, she knew _that she had trodden upon a snake._

Even as she stood poised, one foot on the ground, the other on the
stool, both hands gripping the high shelf, she felt the reptile
whipping, writhing, jerking, lashing, flogging at her ankle and
instep, coiling round her leg.... And in the fraction of a second the
thought flashed through her mind: "If its head is under my foot, or
too close to my foot for its fangs to reach me, I am safe while I
remain as I am. If its head is free I am doomed--and matters cannot be
any the worse for my keeping as I am."

_And she kept as she was,_ with one foot on the stool, out of reach,
and one foot on the snake.

And screamed?

No, called quietly and coolly for the butler, remembering that she had
sent Nurse Beaton out, that her husband was at polo, that there were
none but native servants in the house, and that if she raised an alarm
they would take it, and with single heart consider each the safety of
Number One.

"Boy!" she called calmly, though the room swam round her and a deadly
faintness began to paralyse her limbs and loosen her hold upon the
shelf--"Boy! Come here."

Antonio Ferdinand Xavier D'Souza, Goanese butler, heard and came.

"Mem-Sahib?" quoth he, at the door of the go-down.

"Bring a lamp quickly," said Lenore de Warrenne in a level voice.

The worthy Antonio, fat, spectacled, bald and wheezy, hurried away and
peremptorily bade the _hamal_[2], son of a jungle-pig, to light and
bring a lamp quickly.

The _hamal_, respectfully pointing out to the Bootlair Sahib that the
daylight was yet strong and lusty enough to shame and smother any
lamp, complied with deliberation and care, polishing the chimney,
trimming the wick, pouring in oil and generally making a satisfactory
and commendable job of it.

Lenore de Warrenne, sick, faint, sinking, waited ... waited ... waited
... gripping the shelf and fighting against her over-mastering
weakness for the life of the unborn child that, even in that awful
moment, she prayed might be a daughter.

After many cruelly long centuries, and as she swayed to fall, the good
Antonio entered with the lamp. Her will tri