"Boy, I am standing on a snake!" said she coolly. "Put the lamp--"

But Antonio did not stay to "put" the lamp; incontinent he dropped it
on the floor and fled yelling "Sap! Sap!" and that the Mem-Sahib was
bitten, dying, dead--certainly dead; dead for hours.

And the brave soul in the little room waited ... waited ... waited ...
gripping the shelf, and thinking of the coming daughter, and wondering
whether she must die by snake-bite or fire--unborn--with her unhappy
mother. For the fallen lamp had burst, the oil had caught fire, and
the fire gave no light by which she could see what was beneath her
foot--head, body, or tail of the lashing, squirming snake--as the
flame flickered, rose and fell, burnt blue, swayed, roared in the
draught of the door--did anything but give a light by which she could
see as she bent over awkwardly, still gripping the shelf, one foot on
the stool, further prevented from seeing by her loose draperies.

Soon she realized that in any case she could not see her foot without
changing her position--a thing she would _not_ do while there was
hope--and strength to hold on. For hope there was, inasmuch as _she
had not yet felt the stroke of the reptile's fangs_.

Again she reasoned calmly, though strength was ebbing fast; she must
remain as she was till death by fire or suffocation was the
alternative to flight--flight which was synonymous with death, for, as
her other foot came down and she stepped off the snake, in that
instant it would strike--if it had not struck already.

Meantime--to call steadily and coolly again.