And, dangling from his right wrist, by the leather sword-knot, hung the saber which Colonel Hardwicke had swung in the mad onslaught on the mutineers’ camp at Lucknow.
“Here, Simpson! Send for Doctor McMorris!” cried Hardwicke, as a dozen willing hands sprang to aid him. “Bring brandy, ammonia, and oil!” There was a bamboo settee on the veranda. It received the precious burden which the soldier had held against his heart. “Carry her to her rooms! Gently, now!” commanded the captain. Seizing Justine by the arm, he said: “I think that I arrived in time. Go! Go! You will find me waiting for you here! Examine her at once! The hot iron and artery ligatures alone will save her if she was bitten!” His brow was knotted in agony.
“You came between them!” gasped Justine. “The thing never reached her side!”
“God be thanked! Go! Go!” cried Hardwicke. “I have my work to do here!” A black servant had already led the dancing Garibaldi out to the open safety of the graveled carriage drive. “Look to my horse!” cried Hardwicke. “See that he is not bitten!” and then he slowly walked over to where a dozen menials, with heavy clubs, had beaten the writhing cobra into a shapeless mass.
“Come away, all of you!” cried the captain, in Hindustanee. “Run, some of you, and get the snake catcher!” Doctor McMorris, arriving on the gallop, had reported the absolute safety of the frightened girl, when Harry Hardwicke, leaning on his sheathed sword, watched a slim, glittering-eyed Hindu, followed by a boy bearing an earthen pot, who had noiselessly reconnoitered the vicinity of the great tree. The boy most keenly watched all the movements of his white-robed master, who, drawing a little fife from his red cummerbund sash, began to play a shrill, weird tune. A frightened household coterie watched from a safe distance the thirty-foot circle of herbage around the shade of the giant tree trunk. A shudder crept over the watchers as a huge brown head, with two white circles on the back of the neck, rose slowly out of the grass, and two red-hot gleaming eyes blazed out, as an immense cobra swelled out its fearfully disgusting hood, and, rising halfway, bloated out its loathsome head, swaying to and fro, to the strange music. “There’s the mate!” quietly whispered Hardwicke to Simpson. The snake now showed its greasy belly, like dirty stained marble, and the lithe boy, circling behind it, warily essayed to drop the red earthen pot over its head. But one of the excited servants, stealing up, had released a little mongoose, which now bravely darted upon its deadly enemy.
Seven times did the active little animal dart upon the huge reptile, in a confusedly vicious series of attacks and close in a deadly conflict, and, when, at last, the snake charmer walked disgustedly away, the little ferret’s sharp teeth were transfixed in the throat of its dead enemy.
A handful of silver to the snake catcher and his boy sent them away delighted, while the wounded mongoose, having greedily sucked the blood of the dead cobra, wandered away in triumph, creeping on its belly into the rank grass in search of the life-saving herb which it alone can find, to cure the venom-inflamed wounds of the deadly “naja.” The silent duel was over, and the bodies of the dreadful vipers were hastily buried.
“I shall call this afternoon, at five, to ask Miss Johnstone if she has entirely recovered,” gravely said Captain Hardwicke to Mademoiselle Justine Delande, when the still excited Swiss woman poured forth her congratulations to the young hero of this morning’s episode. Hardwicke was standing with his gloved hand grasping the mettlesome “Garibaldi’s” bridle. Justine Delande threw her arms around the neck of the noble horse and kissed his sleek brown cheek. Then she whispered a few words to Captain Hardwicke, which made that young warrior’s heart leap up in a wild joy.
He laughed lightly as he said: “Keep this quiet. Pray do not allow Miss Johnstone to walk any more in the dewy grass. These deadly reptiles affect moisture, and, strange to say, they love the vicinity of human habitations. As for ‘Garibaldi,’ good old fellow, I’ll bring him this afternoon, but I’ll not take him again over the gate. It was a pretty stiff jump for the old boy.” When Simpson escorted the happy Captain to the opened carriage gate, he threw up his wrinkled hand in salute.
“You’re your father’s own son, Captain, and God bless you and good luck to you and the young mistress.”