Dr. Druring and his wife sat in the library. The scientist was in
rare good humor.
“I have just obtained, by exchange with another collector,” he
said, “a splendid specimen of the Ophiophagus.”
“And what may that be?” the lady inquired with a somewhat languid
interest.
“Why, bless my soul, what profound ignorance! My dear, a man who
ascertains after marriage that his wife does not know Greek, is
entitled to a divorce. The Ophiophagus is a snake which eats other
snakes.”
“I hope it will eat all yours,” she said, absently shifting the
lamp. “But how does it get the other snakes? By charming them, I
suppose.”
“That is just like you, dear,” said the doctor, with an affectation
of petulance. “You know how irritating to me is any allusion to
that vulgar superstition about the snake’s power of fascination.”
The conversation was interrupted by a mighty cry which rang through
the silent house like the voice of a demon shouting in a tomb.
Again and yet again it sounded, with terrible distinctness. They
sprang to their feet, the man confused, the lady pale and
speechless with fright. Almost before the echoes of the last cry
had died away the doctor was out of the room, springing up the
staircase two steps at a time. In the corridor, in front of
Brayton’s chamber, he met some servants who had come from the upper
floor. Together they rushed at the door without knocking. It was
unfastened, and gave way. Brayton lay upon his stomach on the
floor, dead. His head and arms were partly concealed under the
foot rail of the bed. They pulled the body away, turning it upon
the back. The face was daubed with blood and froth, the eyes were
wide open, staring—a dreadful sight!
“Died in a fit,” said the scientist, bending his knee and placing
his hand upon the heart. While in that position he happened to
glance under the bed. “Good God!” he added; “how did this thing
get in here?”
He reached under the bed, pulled out the snake, and flung it, still
coiled, to the center of the room, whence, with a harsh, shuffling
sound, it slid across the polished floor till stopped by the wall,
where it lay without motion. It was a stuffed snake; its eyes were
two shoe buttons.
From “Tales of Soldiers and Civilians,” by Ambrose Bierce.
Copyright, 1891, by E. L. G. Steele.