“There was no snake in his room,” retorted Cleves.
“And no wound on his body,” added Selden. “I attended the autopsy.”
She said, faintly: “There was no snake, and no wound, as you say.... Yet Gutchlug died of both there in his bedroom.... And before he died he heard his soul bidding him farewell; and he saw the death-adder coiled in the sheet he clutched—saw the thing strike him again and again—saw and felt the tiny wounds on his left hand; felt the fangs pricking deep, deep into the veins; died of it there within the minute—died of the swiftest poison known. And yet——”
She turned her dead-white face to Cleves—“And yet there was no snake there!... And never had been.... And so I—I ask you, gentlemen, if souls do not die when minds learn to fight death with death—and deal it so swiftly, so silently, while one’s body lies, unstirring on a bed—in a locked room on the floor below——”
She swayed a little, put out one hand rather blindly.
Recklow rose and passed a muscular arm around her; Cleves, beside her, held her left hand, crushing it, without intention, until she opened her eyes with a cry of pain.
“Are you all right?” asked Recklow bluntly.
“Yes.” She turned and looked at Cleves and he caressed her bruised hand as though dazed.
“Tell me,” she said to Cleves—“you who know—know more about my mind than anybody living——” a painful colour surged into her face—but she went on steadily, forcing herself to meet his gaze: “tell me, Mr. Cleves—do you still believe that nothing can really destroy my soul? And that it shall yet win through to safety?”
He said: “Your soul is in God’s keeping, and always shall be.... And if the Yezidees have made you believe otherwise, they lie.”