“Yes, at the time it was written.” Here Rosalie laughed again triumphantly. “That shows you don’t know the book I’m talking about at all. The man who wrote it lived hundreds of years ago. Quite three hundred, I should say.” “At that rate I must be mistaken. Then if you are so fond of travel and biography, I have some volumes here all on that subject, written, too, about the time you speak of. You will have a great deal of time lie heavy on your hands; perhaps you would like some?” Rosalie looked dubious, and her eyes travelled to the imposing-looking book-shelves. “I never found anyone quite to come up to Ally Krimjo,” she replied regretfully. “You refuse my offer?” “Not if you give me something interesting. But as a rule I don’t like biographies, because the people always die. Now, Ally Krimjo—” “You’re quite right,” said Mr. Barringcourt grimly. “Ally Krimjo hasn’t died, so he deserves to live. Have you the Book of Divine Inspiration?” “Oh, yes! I don’t suppose there’s anyone without that?” “Here’s one with pictures; look at it.” He took down from a shelf a heavy and ponderous volume of the Book of Divine Inspiration, as written and compiled in the planet Lucifram, and carried it without the least apparent effort to the table. “Now come and look at the pictures. I’ll show you a few, and then you can take it away with you and look at the rest.” He opened it at the first page—the frontispiece. It was a picture of the Golden Serpent, so lifelike that its appearance was most startling. The book, likewise, must have possessed the property of magnifying all contained in it, for suddenly the head and coils and tails seemed to enlarge to the same gigantic size as that within the temple. “I don’t like it. Don’t show me any more of that book,” Rosalie said. “But why?” he asked, with apparent surprise. “Oh! I don’t know,” she answered, almost whispering. “It’s the Serpent. I don’t like it.” “But you are the young lady who was kissing its head, and throwing your arms around it.” “Yes, I know. That was because I did not understand.” “And now?” “Oh, now! I think it’s cruel and deceitful.” “That’s nothing short of blasphemy. The Serpent is a god!” “Do you believe that?” she asked, suddenly looking up, and fixing his eyes with a look as keen as it was serious. Two pairs of eyes, dark and light, each encountered one another—each trying to read the other’s secret—and both for once inscrutable, dark and light alike. “Yes. I’ve got a pretty good mental digestion; it can take most things,” he said, the corners of his mouth curving into a smile. “Look! Miss—Miss—What’s your name, by the way?” “My name is Rosalie—Rosalie Paleaf.” “Well now, Miss Paleaf, let us turn to the second picture.”