Septimius hesitated a little; but there was no reason why he should not
disclose the truth,--as much of it as Doctor Portsoaken cared to know.

"The hillock where it grew," answered he, "was a grave."

"A grave! Strange! strange!" quoth Doctor Portsoaken. "Now these old
superstitions sometimes prove to have a germ of truth in them, which some
philosopher has doubtless long ago, in forgotten ages, discovered and made
known; but in process of time his learned memory passes away, but the
truth, undiscovered, survives him, and the people get hold of it, and make
it the nucleus of all sorts of folly. So it grew out of a grave! Yes, yes;
and probably it would have grown out of any other dead flesh, as well as
that of a human being; a dog would have answered the purpose as well as a
man. You must know that the seeds of fungi are scattered so universally
over the world that, only comply with the conditions, and you will produce
them everywhere. Prepare the bed it loves, and a mushroom will spring up
spontaneously, an excellent food, like manna from heaven. So superstition
says, kill your deadliest enemy, and plant him, and he will come up in a
delicious fungus, which I presume to be this; steep him, or distil him,
and he will make an elixir of life for you. I suppose there is some
foolish symbolism or other about the matter; but the fact I affirm to be
nonsense. Dead flesh under some certain conditions of rain and sunshine,
not at present ascertained by science, will produce the fungus, whether
the manure be friend, or foe, or cattle."

"And as to its medical efficacy?" asked Septimius.

"That may be great for aught I know," said Portsoaken; "but I am content
with my cobwebs. You may seek it out for yourself. But if the poor fellow
lost his life in the supposition that he might be a useful ingredient in a