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And all
was in decay. Gaudy paper hung in tatters from the ceilings; the dust
lay thick, undisturbed for generations. Unclean things littered in
musty corners. Through gaping skylights a sunny beam would penetrate;
it played about the mildewy stucco partitions encrusted, in patches,
with a poisonous lichen of bright green. Wandering about this dank and
mournful pile of wreckage, he could understand why simple folks should
dread to enter so ghoul-haunted a spot.
Gladly he issued, by way of an obscure passage, into what had once been
a trim garden. No trace of flowers or shrubs remained; the walks, the
ornamental stone seats and artificial terraces, were merging into brown
earth. Here, in the centre of this ruined pleasaunce, the health-giving
fountain had lately flowed, bubbling up in a couch-shaped basin of
cement. It was now dry. But a damp warmth still clung to its rim,
whereon the mineral had left a comely deposit of opaline texture.
Lowering his hand he felt an intermittent stream of hot air rising out
of the ground, feeble as the breath of a dying man.


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