He is my own snake, and no
man's else."
"But what was his origin?" demanded Herkimer.
"Oh! there is poisonous stuff in any man's heart, sufficient to
generate a brood of serpents," said Elliston, with a hollow laugh.
"You should have heard my homilies to the good townspeople.
Positively, I deem myself fortunate in having bred but a single
serpent. You, however, have none in your bosom, and therefore cannot
sympathize with the rest of the world. It gnaws me! It gnaws me!"
With this exclamation, Roderick lost his self-control and threw
himself upon the grass, testifying his agony by intricate writhings,
in which Herkimer could not but fancy a resemblance to the motions
of a snake. Then, likewise, was heard that frightful hiss, which often
ran through the sufferer's speech, and crept between the words and
syllables, without interrupting their succession.
"This is awful indeed!" exclaimed the sculptor- "an awful
infliction, whether it be actual or imaginary! Tell me, Roderick
Elliston, is there any remedy for this loathsome evil?"
"Yes, but an impossible one," muttered Roderick, as he lay
wallowing with his face in the grass.
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