“Here, let me look,” cried the doctor, who had now climbed up to where they stood, closely followed by Sir John. “Snake, was it?”
“Yes, sir; there’s his body tying itself up in knots, and here’s his head.”
As he spoke, the man stooped down quickly, made a dig with the point of his knife, and transfixed the cut-off portion through the neck just at the back of the skull, and the jaws gaped widely as he held it up in triumph.
“Here, let me see,” cried Sir John excitedly. “Yes, look, Instow, the swollen glands at the back of the jaw, and here they are like bits of glass—the poison fangs. Jack, lad, where did it strike you?”
“Strike me?” said the lad feebly, and shuddering slightly, as he stood with his eyes half-closed, and dropped the cluster of orchids.
“Yes; speak out, quick!” cried the doctor, grasping the lad by the arm. “Where are you hurt?”
“Twined round my hand, and bit at my arm twice—just there.”
He stood pointing dreamily at the thickest part of his forearm, just where the jacket-sleeve went into wrinkles through the bending of the joint.
“Yes, I see,” cried the doctor. “Here, Ned, man, jump down there and get my flask. You’ll find it in my coat. A plated one full of ammonia.”
Ned leaped in a break-neck way down the lava wall, and the doctor forced his patient into a sitting position and stripped off his jacket. Then he snapped off the wrist button and turned up the shirt-sleeve, to begin examining the white skin for the tiny punctures made by the two bites, while Sir John knelt by him, supporting his son, who looked very white and strange, and as if he were trying to master the sense of horror from which he now suffered.