But the change soon grew as monotonous as my prison life. The rain poured down, there were fierce rushes of wind, blinding flashes of lightning, and deafening peals of thunder; but the tents were not blown down, they were too well sheltered by the huge trees around, and as the rain brought a feeling of coolness, I began to grow more sensible, and to feel glad that no catastrophe had happened. I must have dropped asleep, to wake up with a start and the recollection of my visitation from the serpents. I could see nothing, and my heart seemed to cease beating as I recalled the habits of the creatures, how, drowned out of their holes by such a storm, they would seek shelter in houses, and here was one wet, cold creature with its head playing over my face, and from there gliding down my arm to my hand, which it seized, the jaws closing upon my fingers while I lay, unable in my horror to call for help. Then my confusion and horror mingled passed off, and a curious sensation of exultation came over me, for it was all fancy about the serpent. The lamp was out, the tent in total darkness, and that which I had felt was a hand gliding over my face, and from thence to my hand, into which it had pressed something. At that moment I heard a rustling to my left, and sounds to my right, the tent door was thrown open, and I could just make out the figure of Salaman, as he uttered an ejaculation at the darkness, and hurried across to the stand, where he paused to strike a light, the lamp having by some accident gone out. The light of the match he had struck illuminated the tent, and I glanced sharply round, but no one else was visible; and as I lay wondering, and ready to believe it all fancy, there was what felt like a note crushed in my hand, and Salaman was busy about the tent. "Is my lord asleep?" he said softly. "No," I replied. "When my lord wishes the lamp to be turned out, so that he may look at the lightning, if he calls his servant will come." "Yes; thank you," I said. And then I lay thinking, my heart thumping heavily the while. Somebody--a friend, then--had crept into the tent and turned out the lamp, before trying to give me the note. But was it a note? It felt like it, as I held it tightly in my hand, longing now for the man to go, but afraid to say a word to send him away, for fear I should raise his suspicions in the slightest degree, and induce him to rouse his companions and watch, or go round the tent at a time when I felt sure that the bearer of the note was hiding just outside. Oh, how long it seemed, and what a number of petty, trifling little things Salaman did before he moved toward the doorway of the tent! I do not think he did more than was his custom; but this time I fancied he suspected something wrong, and was watching me.