The same stupor that had dulled him almost all day mercifully settled over his mind again—as the surgeons administer the ether according to the requirements of the patient who must go under the knife. Sometimes just enough to enable them to bear it. So now the dreamy lethargy slipped down upon him. He was growing to love it in an odd way—this new state of his which brought relief from pain.
How long he had been standing there he could not tell. Then he became aware that she was no longer in the room, though he had not realized when she passed from his view. The side door opened, the one at the end of the veranda, just as it had done—when it had opened before. She came out. He could see a bit of her white gown where the thin dark blue wrap she wore fluttered as she moved. Where would she go?—The same turn—toward the jungle path! She was going to meet her lover—but for the last time, by God!
He followed her stealthily. How she sped along! How well she remembered the path!—far better than her husband, who could hardly keep her in view hurrying over the rough road full of turns and obstacles.
They were well into the jungle now. He felt he must keep tight hold of his brain—it throbbed so heavily that he wondered if it would give way at the decisive moment. Perhaps there would be no need for Rutherford's services, nor Harrington's either! . . .
Wow was that? Where had she vanished to? He strained his eyes through the dense foliage, but could not see her. Perhaps it was nothing but a dream after all. A frightful nightmare. If he were awake, where was he? Was this the wild path to the jungle, or was he at home in his own bed, just waking from a long, horrifying nightmare? He must have dreamed he saw his wife going before him on this dreary road. How else could she vanish like that?
What was that sound, far in the depths of the jungle? Sounds—sounds of motion—sounds of voices! So it was no dream! It was true—true! The moment had come! It was there; no dream-phantom, but living flesh—flesh that could be cut, pierced, hacked. If only he could remain sane long enough to do what must be done!
He paused, trying to gather himself together, to hold on to every atom of force still left within him—listening! Voices? No, a voice—only one—hers! How could he reach them without their hearing him? There—there!—by that little, winding path off the road—straight into the deepest jungle.
And now the sounds grew louder—the articulated words began to reach him! She was happy—happy! The sweetest sounds of coaxing love! He stumbled wildly on.
"My darling! my darling! You are here before me! How I have longed for you—longed for you!—"
Halketh staggered on. The end was near now!
"I love you!—put your head down, close to mine—So!—"
Again that gurgling little laugh! What did it bring back to him—?
"There—closer to me—closer—closer—Ah!—"
How strange! Was that music? Who was playing? What air was that, so sweet, so familiar? He knew it now! The faker played it, long ago, as he came through the thick leaved trees—
"Again, beloved!"
He wondered if he only thought he heard the music.
"Give me love—life—with your lips! Kiss me, kiss me!—"
Just then the dream changed—as dreams will—for he seemed to come out into the clearing, so that he might see his wife at last, in her lover's embrace. In dreams we are never able to move at the right moment; and in this dream Halketh stood as if petrified, not yet free to spring at Ronald.
The dark form beside his wife moved. The Lover's head was rising—rising—Oh, God!—God!—
Dazed, crazed, mad with horror, Halketh covered his eyes with his hands. He looked again, and—then he realized! That hooded head—those coils—not Bell itself could offer such a sight, as the terrible Lover kissed her once again! . . .
Suddenly Halketh leaped toward them. The sword destined for Ronald's heart sank deep into the cobra's scaly neck. Again, again, again—once more—and yet once more! And now the dreadful coils writhed in mad, convulsive rings, like giant clock springs gone mad, as Halketh's sword pierced and hacked.
Wild cries rang out. Something sprang at his throat. He felt small pricks like finger nails tearing at his throat—trying to claw their little way into his flesh. So his wife had joined the mad nightmare, too! Why not, when all Hell was loose tonight? Unheeding the tiny might of Mildred's blows, he plunged the sharp sword again and again, until the writhing coils were still enough to turn safely away from. And yet he would rather go on hacking forever, until oblivion should overcome him, than cease and turn to that which must now be met.
Dazed with the utter horror of it all, Halketh seized his wife with such force that her frantic struggles ceased abruptly.
"You demon!" she screamed, "you have robbed me of my love, my happiness, my life itself—"
"Stop it! Stop it!" shouted Halketh, shaking her again, until her teeth rattled. "You are a devil in my poor Mildred's form! I should kill you!" He looked about him for the sword he had tossed aside.
The rough shaking seemed to bring Mildred somewhat to her senses. Seizing his arm, she wailed:
"Oh, Ernest! Pity me! You do not—you cannot understand!"
He stared at her, with horror and crazed bewilderment struggling in his face.
"Ernest!—for God's sake—why did you kill him?"
At this his last faint hope died, and he resigned himself to the fantastic inferno whose quicksands were fast swallowing him up. He gave a ghastly laugh.
"I suppose I am dreaming—nothing seems real any more. I hope nothing is real, Mildred, where are we? What has happened?"
She was weeping. "Oh, Ernest! Let me only collect myself! I know how terrible it must seem to you. But—I cannot live without what you have just seen!"
He remained quite still, stupidly at her.
"I don't understand you, Mildred."
"I know, dear—it will be very hard for you to understand it. I never wanted you to know."
His vacant gaze did not leave her face.
Mildred was coming back more and more to herself. She laid her hand on his arm.
"Shall we go back, dear? I could explain it better to you at home, I think."
"Mildred, you must clear this away now." Halketh was making a supreme effort to retain his consciousness, which he felt slipping away. "Be quick—or I fear I cannot hold out!"
Still panting and trembling, she sought to reply to him.
"Ernest!—my darling husband!"
He shuddered at the endearing words, and she saw it.
"Forgive me, or I shall die!" she wailed. "I am not to blame—oh, Ernest, I am not to blame! Ever since the night when the natives carried me away—years ago—when a cobra stung me as we passed under a tree—I have been unable to live without their poison.
