Quite calmly and coolly each priest thrust his hand into the jar and, pulling out the snakes as if they had been long coils of ribbon, thrust them into a canvas bag which he carried.
As they started back toward the other priests, instinctively Peggy Webster made her way toward Mrs. Burton and slipped her hand into hers. In spite of the heat of the day and the stuffiness inside the great chamber, her aunt’s hand was cold as ice.
“I feel horribly ill, Peggy, dear; I don’t know why I ever thought of bringing you girls to a festival like this, no matter how celebrated.”
Peggy looked quickly about at their group and for the first time missed Bettina. But, being wise, Peggy said nothing.
The girls did not seem to be so unpleasantly affected as Mrs. Burton; but, then, none of them had quite her sensitiveness and quick response to emotions and conditions, except, perhaps, Bettina, who was not present.
“I think you had better go out, Tante,” Peggy whispered.
Polly set her teeth with her old obstinacy. “No, dear, remember I am the Camp Fire guardian; I can’t leave you girls alone to a scene like this.”
The solemn moment had arrived; a low chanting song begun.
A priest stuck his hand into the bag, drawing out as many snakes as possible. These he flung into the great basin of holy water. Other priests followed suit. Then, when the snakes had been washed, they drew them out, flinging them onto the floor of sand where the great mass wriggled and curved and twisted, kept in place by other priests with snake whips.
In spite of her effort, in spite of her self-condemnation, Mrs. Burton felt the scene getting farther and farther away and a kind of darkness steal over her.