Dazzled with the glaring sunlight outside, Malcolm hesitated on the threshold for a moment, and in that moment Nellie passed him and ran into the church. Even then I could not move my gaze from the snake, or speak or move, or give a symptom of warning But I was aware of poor old Nellie coming towards me, panting and puffing with the heat and fatigue of her walk, and with greeting and gladness in her soft brown eyes. She was scarcely a yard from me, and I heard my brother call to her: “Go out, Nellie; go out!” Then there was a sound as if a whip were cutting through the air, and something passed before my vision like a flash of forked lightning in the sky, and I knew that the death-blow had fallen--not on me, but on dear, devoted old Nellie, the bulldog. The python literally leapt at her, striking again and again, as it endeavoured to seize her in its awful coils. I waited no longer, but sprang from the chair, upsetting it and the books in my flight, and fairly flew to the door. I reached Malcolm in safety, and he dragged me outside, shutting the door behind us, and leaving Nellie and the python in the church. The dog’s piteous cries of agony and fear sickened us, and made Malcolm attempt a rescue. He rushed in once again, calling to the dog, in the vain hope that she might at least die with us at her side. But she could not see; blinded with fright she ran wildly about. Her end was horrible to contemplate, and I pressed my hands to my ears to shut out the sounds, running from the church and close proximity of the fearful creature under whose spell I had been for so long. I sank down under the shade of some trees and thanked God I was safe! But the cries of poor Nellie, the thud, thud of the bellows, and the mournful dirge I had repeated over and over again banged and clanged unceasingly in my head, remaining with me through many days of utter prostration and exhaustion. [Illustration: “THE KAFFIRS, SEEING ITS SKIN STRETCHED IN THE SUN TO DRY, LOST THEIR SUPERSTITIOUS BELIEF IN THE MAGIC POWERS OF THE CREATURE.”] The last music that python heard was the crack of Malcolm’s rifle as he shot it in the church. That same afternoon the Kaffirs, seeing its skin stretched in the sun to dry, lost their superstitious belief in the magic powers of the creature, and marvelled at its huge size. The mottled, shaded skin now hangs, faded, dull, and dusty, after many years, on the walls of a college museum, amidst other South African trophies. We buried what remained of poor Nellie in the shadow of St. John-in-the-Wilderness. Across America by Airship. THE STORY OF AN ILL-STARRED ENTERPRISE. BY ARTHUR INKERSLEY, OF SAN FRANCISCO.