"Tongs," said he in Arabic. "Lend me a pair of tongs."
The man, expressionless, produced the article in question.
Crouch took a piece of charcoal from the brazier, that was white-hot, and, without a moment's hesitation, he thrust this upon the place where the poison had entered his flesh. As he underwent that agony, his sallow face turned a trifle paler, his lips grew thinner, and his only eye more bright; but never a groan, or even a sigh, escaped him.
At last he threw the charcoal back into the fire.
"That's all right," said he. "It isn't a pleasant remedy, but it's sure." Then he turned to Cæsar. "I should like a little whisky," said he. "I feel a trifle faint."
He asked for Edward's arm to assist him on his way, and no sooner were they clear of the kitchen than he whispered in Harden's ear--
"There's nothing to worry about," said he. "I'm as right as rain. I was never bitten at all. But I had to stop you somehow, or you would have told that fellow what we heard of the Fire-gods. Mind, he must know nothing."
When they got back to the hut, Cæsar gave Crouch half a tumblerful of neat whisky, which the captain drained at a gulp. Needless to say, their efforts to find the snake proved fruitless. Then Crouch again complained of faintness, and asked permission to lie down upon the bed. No sooner was he there than he closed his eyes, and soon afterwards was sound asleep--if one was entitled to judge by his heavy breathing. Once or twice he snored.
But, already, we have seen enough of Captain Crouch to know that, in his case, it would not be wise to go by appearances. He was no more asleep than he had been throughout those long hours when he had kept watch in the bows of the canoe.
Cæsar motioned to Edward to be seated at the table, and Max took the chair which had been formerly occupied by Crouch. De Costa remained seated upon the chest.