“He himself was entirely without fear, and could not understand it.  To him it was pure affectation.  He had a muddled idea, common to men of his stamp, that women assume nervousness because they think it pretty and becoming to them, and that if one could only convince them of the folly of it they might be induced to lay it aside, in the same way that they lay aside mincing steps and simpering voices.  A man who prided himself, as he did, upon his knowledge of horses, might, one would think, have grasped a truer notion of the nature of nervousness, which is a mere matter of temperament.  But the man was a fool.

“The thing that vexed him most was her horror of snakes.  He was unblessed—­or uncursed, whichever you may prefer—­with imagination of any kind.  There was no special enmity between him and the seed of the serpent.  A creature that crawled upon its belly was no more terrible to him than a creature that walked upon its legs; indeed, less so, for he knew that, as a rule, there was less danger to be apprehended from them.  A reptile is only too eager at all times to escape from man.  Unless attacked or frightened, it will make no onset.  Most people are content to acquire their knowledge of this fact from the natural history books.  He had proved it for himself.  His servant, an old sergeant of dragoons, has told me that he has seen him stop with his face six inches from the head of a hooded cobra, and stand watching it through his eye-glass as it crawled away from him, knowing that one touch of its fangs would mean death from which there could be no possible escape.  That any reasoning being should be inspired with terror—­sickening, deadly terror—­by such pitifully harmless things, seemed to him monstrous; and he determined to try and cure her of her fear of them.

“He succeeded in doing this eventually somewhat more thoroughly than he had anticipated, but it left a terror in his own eyes that has not gone out of them to this day, and that never will.

“One evening, riding home through a part of the jungle not far from his bungalow, he heard a soft, low hiss close to his ear, and, looking up, saw a python swing itself from the branch of a tree and make off through the long grass.  He had been out antelope-shooting, and his loaded rifle hung by his stirrup.  Springing from the frightened horse, he was just in time to get a shot at the creature before it disappeared.  He had hardly expected, under the circumstances, to even hit it.  By chance the bullet struck it at the junction of the vertebrae with the head, and killed it instantly.  It was a well-marked specimen, and, except for the small wound the bullet had made, quite uninjured.  He picked it up, and hung it across the saddle, intending to take it home and preserve it.

“Galloping along, glancing down every now and again at the huge, hideous thing swaying and writhing in front of him almost as if still alive, a brilliant idea occurred to him.  He would use this dead reptile to cure his wife of her fear of living ones.  He would fix matters so that she should see it, and think it was alive, and be terrified by it; then he would show her that she had been frightened by a mere dead thing, and she would feel ashamed of herself, and be healed of her folly.  It was the sort of idea that would occur to a fool.