‘Let me be, doctor,’ said the aged botanist. ‘I know what ails me and how best it should be treated. My end lies in the lake that burns with fire and sulphur.’
From his pocket, he took out a cabinet photograph and gazed at it for a long moment, his lips twitching beneath the white beard and the eyes sparkling with tears. As he lowered the cabinet, I could see that the photograph was a formal portrait of what had once been a beautiful woman. But the image had been shamefully defaced with a knife, so that the handsome features were little more than shreds of malice.
‘Babylon,’ said the old man. ‘The mother of earth’s abominations.’
It was Dr Marlowe who rescued the situation. ‘Gentlemen, we must give the man his peace. Come with me, for he must be allowed complete rest at this time.’
The
