EVE. And what good was that?
THE SERPENT. I shewed the little case to the sun, and left it in its
warmth. And it burst; and a little snake came out; and it became bigger
and bigger from day to day until it was as big as I. That was the second
birth.
EVE. Oh! That is too wonderful. It stirs inside me. It hurts.
THE SERPENT. It nearly tore me asunder. Yet I am alive, and can burst my
skin and renew myself as before. Soon there will be as many snakes in
Eden as there are scales on my body. Then death will not matter: this
snake and that snake will die; but the snakes will live.
EVE. But the rest of us will die sooner or later, like the fawn. And
then there will be nothing but snakes, snakes, snakes everywhere.
THE SERPENT. That must not be. I worship you, Eve. I must have something
to worship. Something quite different to myself, like you. There must be
something greater than the snake.
EVE. Yes: it must not be. Adam must not perish. You are very subtle:
tell me what to do.
THE SERPENT. Think. Will. Eat the dust. Lick the white stone: bite the
apple you dread.
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