He was shut in with the SNAKE.  At last it had come for him in its own concrete form and had him bound and gagged by fascination and fear—­in the Dark, the awful cruel Dark.  No more mere myrmidons. The SNAKE ITSELF.

He tried to scream and could not.  He tried to strike out at an imaginary serpent-head, huge as an elephant, that reared itself above him—­and could not.

He could not even draw his bare foot in under the overcoat.  And steadily the paper dragged across the floor ...  Was it approaching?  Was it progressing round and round by the walls?  Would the Snake find the bed and climb on to it?  Would it coil round his throat and gaze with-luminescent eyes into his, and torture him thus for hours ere thrusting its fangs into his brain?  Would it coil up and sleep upon his body for hours before doing so, knowing that he could not move?  Here were his Snake-Dreams realized, and in the actual flesh he lay awake and conscious, and could neither move nor cry aloud!

In the Dark he lay bound and gagged, in a blue-walled room, and the Snake enveloped him with its Presence, and he could in no wise save himself.

Oh, God, why let a sentient creature suffer thus?  He himself would have shot any human being guilty of inflicting a tithe of the agony on a pariah dog.  There could be no God!... and then the beams of the rising moon fell upon the blade of the Sword, making it shine like a lamp, and, with a roar as of a charging lion, Damocles de Warrenne sprang from the bed, seized it by the hilt, and was aware, without a tremor, of a cobra that reared itself before him in the moonlight, swaying in the Dance of Death.

With a mere flick of the sword he laid the reptile twitching on the floor—­and for a few minutes was madder with Joy than ever in his life he had been with Fear.

For Fear was gone.  The World of Woe had fallen from his shoulders.  The Snake was to him but a wretched reptile whose head he would crush ere it bruised his heel.  He was sane—­he was safe—­he was a Man again, and ere many days were past he would be the husband of Lucille and the master of Monksmead.

“Oh, God forgive me for a blind, rebellious worm,” he prayed.  “Forgive me, and strike not this cup from my lips.  You would not punish the blasphemy of a madman?  I cannot pray in ordered forms, but I beg forgiveness for my hasty cry ‘There is on God’ ...” and then pressed the Sword to his lips—­the Sword that, under God, had overthrown the "Darling, I am cured!  I have not the slightest fear of snakes.  The Sword has saved me.  I am a Man again."

He told her all as she sat laughing and sobbing for joy and the dying snake lay at their feet.

In her heart of hearts Lucille determined that the wedding should take place immediately, so that if this were but a temporary respite, the result of the flash of daring inspired by the Sword, she would have the right to care for him for the rest of his life ...  She would——­