“My sable friend， Scipio， has a story，” replied Roderick，“of a snake that had lurked in this fountain—pure andinnocent as it looks—ever since it was known to the firstsettlers. This insinuating personage once crept into thevitals of my great-grandfather， and dwelt there many years，tormenting the old gentleman beyond mortal endurance.
In short， it is a family peculiarity. But， to tell you the truth，I have no faith in this idea of the snake’s being an heirloom.
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 homiliesto the good townspeople. Positively， I deem myselffortunate in having bred but a single serpent. You，however， have none in your bosom， and therefore cannotsympathize with the rest of the world. It gnaws me！ Itgnaws me！”
With this exclamation， Roderick lost his self-controland threw himself upon the grass， testifying his agony byintricate writhings， in which Herkimer could not but fancya resemblance to the motions of a snake. Then， likewise，was heard that frightful hiss， which often ran throughthe sufferer’s speech， and crept between the words andsyllables， without interrupting their succession.
“This is awful indeed！” exclaimed the sculptor— “anawful infliction， whether it be actual or imaginary！ Tell me，Roderick Elliston， is there any remedy for this loathsomeevil？”
“Yes， but an impossible one，” muttered Roderick， ashe lay wallowing with his face in the grass. “Could I， forone instant， forget myself， the serpent might not abidewithin me. It is my diseased self-contemplation that hasengendered and nourished him！”
“Then forget yourself， my husband，” said a gentle voiceabove him— “forget yourself in the idea of another！”
Rosina had emerged from the arbor， and was bendingover him， with the shadow of his anguish reflected inher countenance， yet so mingled with hope and unselfishlove， that all anguish seemed but an earthly shadow anda dream. She touched Roderick with her hand. A tremorshivered through his frame. At that moment， if report betrustworthy， the sculptor beheld a waving motion throughthe grass， and heard a tinkling sound， as if something hadplunged into the fountain. Be the truth as it might， it iscertain that Roderick Elliston sat up， like a man renewed，restored to his right mind， and rescued from the fiend，which had so miserably overcome him in the battle-fieldof his own breast.
“Rosina！” cried he， in broken and passionate tones， butwith nothing of the wild wail that had haunted his voiceso long. “Forgive！ Forgive！”
Her happy tears bedewed his face.
“The punishment has been severe，” observed thesculptor. “Even justice might now forgive—how muchmore a woman’s tenderness！ Roderick Elliston， whetherthe serpent was a physical reptile， or whether themorbidness of your nature suggested that symbol to yourfancy， the moral of the story is not the less true and strong.
A tremendous Egotism—manifesting itself， in your case，in the form of jealousy—is as fearful a fiend as ever stoleinto the human heart. Can a breast， where it has dwelt solong， be purified？”
“Oh， yes！” said Rosina， with a heavenly smile. “Theserpent was but a dark fantasy， and what it typified was asshadowy as itself. The past， dismal as it seems， shall flingno gloom upon the future. To give it its due importance，we must think of it but as an anecdote in our Eternity！”
