Finally the young man stood in the middle of the clearing, rigid and motionless, his staring eyes still fixed on the strange man who clearly held him under a hypnotic spell. The medicine man took from his loin cloth a small reed and began to blow on it, producing a low, crooning noise, like a bagpipe rather out of tune. He kept this up for some little time without any result. Then, suddenly, from somewhere--seemingly from the solid ground--a score or more of ugly, venomous-looking snakes came forth and seemed to be moving to the cadences of the small reed. “Snake charmer!” muttered Chick. “Yes,” returned Nick, in a scarcely audible tone. “Gee! Here’s a circus. But I’d hate to take a girl to see it,” added Patsy Garvan. Jefferson Arnold said nothing. But he stared intently, for he believed he recognized the young man who had been drawn to the center of the ring. “Say! What are we going to do about this?” exclaimed Patsy, in a subdued tone. “The snakes are crawling up on him.” It was true. There was a sharp change in the melody--if it could be called that--of the pipe, and several of the snakes began to circle closely around the young man. Some of them seemed to strike in his direction, but their fangs never quite reached him. The whole performance was one that snake charmers in India have carried on for ages, but it was none the less eerie and extraordinary to those who now saw it for the first time. One of the snakes--the largest of the squirming collection--was halfway up the young man’s leg. The reptile did not stop there, however. It went up to his shoulder, and finally crawled around his neck till its head was close to the victim’s livid face. The young fellow shuddered, but did not try to shake the creature off. It looked as if his power of will had been taken from him. He could only suffer. “Carter!” whispered Jefferson excitedly. “We’ve got to save that boy.” “Of course we must,” answered Nick. “I know,” rejoined Jefferson impatiently. “You can take it easily. But I _know_ him.” “Who is he?” “I can’t be quite sure, because it is dark, and that infernal green glow doesn’t tell much. But I believe it is Adil, the young fellow my boy engaged as a sort of body servant. He says all white men in India have a servant of that kind.” Nick Carter’s grip tightened on his rifle. “Keep cool, Mr. Arnold! We’ll save him!” he promised, in low, tense tones. “But we must be cautious.” “It _is_ Adil!” came from Arnold. “I feel sure of it. Every move tells me so. I’ve half a mind to shoot that black scarecrow who is doing it all. I can do it without much trouble. Those snakes are doing just as he tells them. That big one is going to strike Adil before he gets through.” “I don’t think so,” declared Nick. “The old fakir doesn’t mean to let that happen.” “What’s he doing it all for?”