The stage was all clear again now, and he bowed deeply before them three times. There was a restless movement among the watchers. Perhaps they thought this was the end, but Ruth waited, her heart high up in her throat and standing still with fear that she would somehow fail to do the thing she had decided upon.
George moved slowly backward toward the curtain and parted it with his two hands, still facing them. Then reaching back he grasped a heavy object behind him and dragged it into the centre of the stage, the curtains closing behind him. He stood back now and they could see what looked like a large ebony chest. He knelt before it, and Ruth could see that there was more of reverence than utility in his attitude, as he lifted the deep lid that seemed to divide the chest in half. Before her eyes she saw forming the altar she had twice seen before. The side of the lifted top made a wide platform. It was there that It would lie. From a compartment in the lifted half he took an antique lamp, which he set on what now looked like the base of the altar. Ruth had removed the revolver from her girdle—the cold metal saved her from screaming aloud as George lit the lamp—a pale blue flame from which, on the instant, heavy, odorous spirals of smoke began to rise, filling the silent room with the insidious perfume of idolatry. For a moment the smoke seemed to blind her eyes. Then she saw—
CHAPTER XVII
A sigh, more like a gasp, ran through the room—from nowhere apparently, by some trick of slight of hand, by some optical illusion, by some power of hypnosis, they all saw a huge snake coiled on top of what had been an ebony chest, but was now an altar, and before it knelt a priest whose last incarnation had surely been thousands of years before kind Buddha came to bless or curse the world with his doctrine of annihilation.
Then for the first time Karkotaka moved his lips in audible speech—swaying on his knees before the altar, he chanted what no one could doubt was a hymn of praise and supplication to the snake that lay coiled inert above the lamp. For some moments he chanted while they waited with held breath, fascinated, repelled, frightened, for once in their sophisticated lives, into silence.
Then the coiled mass began to move—its head was raised and they could see its cold, glittering eyes; it seemed to be swaying as Karkotaka swayed in time to the chant. The clouds of incense grew thicker and they could scarcely see each other’s faces had they looked, but their eyes were held by the tableau on the stage, the kneeling, swaying, chanting priest and the reptile that swayed in response. Ever higher and higher reared the evil head, swaying always further and further toward the end of the semicircle at which Ruth and Pendragon were sitting. Ruth sensed his presence at her side and knew the tenseness of his waiting, but she dared not turn her eyes toward him for one moment. Higher and higher rose the chant until with a swift movement and a shout Karkotaka stood upon his feet. In the same moment the snake reared to its full height, hissing with open mouth toward them. In that instant Ruth shot. In the confusion she was conscious of thinking that she must have hit the snake right between the eyes, for it fell to the floor with scarcely a movement, and George stood, staring stupidly down at it. Every one was on their feet—every one speaking at once, though she could not understand what they said. She could only stare at the revolver in her hand. It all happened in such a swift moment—then her head was clear—Gloria had fainted—they were trying to give her air. Some one of the bewildered, frightened servants turned on the lights. Professor Pendragon strode past her, and though Ruth saw the smoking revolver in his hand, it carried no message to her brain. Thrusting aside Prince Aglipogue, who was kneeling futilely over Gloria, he picked her up in his arms and carried her out, and in the general excitement no one thought to wonder at his miraculous cure. Angela had followed Pendragon, but Ruth with the others stood gazing at the horrible enchantment.
“Who did it?—who shot the thing?” she heard some one ask.
“I did.” She held up her revolver. “I killed it.”
“Let me see.” It was Terry standing beside her. He took the revolver from her hands.
“Sorry, Ruth, but I’m afraid you didn’t. It was Pendragon. I was watching him and saw him aim and fire. It was a splendid shot even for an expert and at such short range, for the filthy brute was moving and he hit it right between the eyes. You see, child—” he opened the revolver for her to look—“there hasn’t been a single shot fired from your gun.”