Poe was dying. “I’d put the hypocephalus under your head,” Burton joked, “but it’s flat, and would give you no comfort. The Egyptians made lousy pillows.” He knew Poe had it worse than he did, but he hurt, too, arm, leg and chest. He hadn’t been in this much sheer physical pain since the night he had a spear thrust through his face. He grinned with pride at the memory. Poe twisted his face into something that resembled a smile. “Putting a cloth… under a man’s head… doesn’t make it a pillow,” he gasped, “any more than putting a man in a stable… makes him a horse.” He coughed hard and flopped his head to one side to spit more of his life onto the floor. Burton chuckled. “I’m willing to admit we don’t know what the hypocephalus was for and call it a draw if you are,” he offered. “I’d love to borrow your specimen and take it back to London with me. You could come lecture on it for the Royal Geographical Society. We could debate the issue again.”
