dare do, and she thinks nothing of it. Come and see.”
Cecily had already reached the cage, and was bending over it, humming a weird little refrain that rose and fell and turned upon itself, reminding me faintly of the negro spirituals I had once heard at a camp-meeting in the Jersey woods. After a moment, I saw a movement within the cage, and a head erected itself, a broad, triangular head, deep orange barred with black, with eyes like coals of fire. It swayed to and fro, to and fro, as Cecily fitted words to the refrain—queer, chopped-off Creole words.
“Oh, ou jojolli, oui! Oh, thou art pretty, pretty, Fé-Fé! Pa ka fai moin pé! I do not fear her, not at all! Fé-Fé is the work of the good God. Travaill Bon-Dié joli? Is she not pretty?”
Gradually we had drawn nearer, Tremaine and I, and I felt myself yielding to the fascination of the song, even as the serpent did. It was not very large, nor seemingly very formidable, so I did not even think of fear when Cecily opened the little door of the cage and drew it forth. She held it between thumb and finger just behind the head, and by a slight pressure she forced its jaws apart. Then she poured the wine down its throat, drop by drop. Finally she returned it to its cage and shut the door.
When it was over and she was lying again on the couch, panting with a kind of fearful exhaustion, I turned to Tremaine, who was mopping his forehead feverishly.
“I’ve got a kind of superstitious horror of that snake,” he said apologetically, as he met my eyes.
