strode back to the cauldron and, all being ready, suddenly opened the
casket and let the fleshy thing fall in to boil.

Then he made spells, then he flung up his arms; the fumes from the
cauldron entering in at his mind he said raging things that he had not
known before and runes that were dreadful (the acolyte screamed);
there he cursed London from fog to loam-pit, from zenith to the abyss,
motor-bus, factory, shop, parliament, people. "Let them all perish,"
he said, "and London pass away, tram lines and bricks and pavement,
the usurpers too long of the fields, let them all pass away and the
wild hares come back, blackberry and briar-rose."

"Let it pass," he said, "pass now, pass utterly."

In the momentary silence the old man coughed, then waited with eager
eyes; and the long long hum of London hummed as it always has since
first the reed-huts were set up by the river, changing its note at
times but always humming, louder now than it was in years gone by, but
humming night and day though its voice be cracked with age; so it
hummed on.

And the old man turned him round to his trembling acolyte and terribly
said as he sank into the earth: "YOU HAVE NOT BROUGHT ME THE HEART
OF THE TOAD THAT DWELLETH IN ARABIA NOR BY THE MOUNTAINS OF
BETHANY!"