if he had ever met another
ancient mariner named Charon.

"Oh, yes," was his answer. "Charon keeps the ferry across the Styx to
the Elysian Fields, past the sunless marsh of Acheron. Yes--I've met
him more than once. I met him only last month, and he was very proud of
his new electric launch with its storage battery."

When I expressed my surprise at this, he asked me if I did not know
that the underworld was now lighted by electricity, and that Pluto had
put in all the modern improvements. Before I had time to answer, he
rose from his seat and slapped me on the shoulder.

"Come up with me!--if you want to behold things for yourself," he
cried. "So far, it seems to me, you have never seen the sights!"

I followed him on deck. The sun was now two hours high, and I could
just make out a faint line of land on the horizon.

"That rugged coast is Bohemia, which is really a desert country by the
sea, although ignorant and bigoted pedants have dared to deny it," and
the scorn of my companion as he said this was wonderful to see. "Its
borders touch Alsatia, of which the chief town is a city of refuge. Not
far inland, but a little to the south, is the beautiful Forest of
Arden, where men and maids dwell together in amity, and where clowns
wander, making love to shepherdesses. Some of these same pestilent
pedants have pretended to believe that this forest of Arden was
situated in France, which is absurd, as there are no serpents and no
lions in France, while we have the best of evidence as to the existence
of both in Arden--you know that, don't you?"

I admitted that a green and gilded snake and a lioness with udders all
drawn dry were known to have been seen there both on the same day. I
ventured to suggest further that possibly this Forest of Arden was the
Wandering Wood where Una met her lion.

"Of course," was the curt response; "everybody knows that Arden is a
most beautiful region; even the toads there have precious jewels in
their heads. And if you range the forest freely you may chance to find
also the White Doe of Rylstone and the goat with the gilded horns that
told fortunes in Paris long ago by tapping with his hoof on a
tambourine."

"These, then, are the Happy Hunting-Grounds?" I suggested with a light
laugh.

"Who would chase a tame goat?" he retorted with ill-concealed contempt
for my ill-advised remark.

I thought it best to keep silence; and after a minute or two he resumed
the conversation, like one