“No, no; Bacchus is worse than Hercules.”
The travellers pass these dangers, and reach the palace of Pluto. Bacchus knocks at the door. “Who’s there?” cries Æacus the porter. “The valiant Hercules,” says Bacchus. The name calls forth a torrent of reproaches, and threats. Hercules was only too well remembered there.
“O villain, villain, doubly, trebly dyed!
’Twas thou didst take our dog, our guardian dog,
Sweet Cerberus, my charge. But, villain, now
We have thee on the hip. For thee the rocks
Of Styx, and Acheron’s dripping well of blood,
And Hell’s swift hounds encompass.”
“Did you hear that dreadful voice?” says Bacchus to the slave. “Didn’t it frighten you?”
“Frighten me? No, I didn’t give it a thought.”
“Well, you are a bold fellow. I say; suppose you become me, and I become you. Take the club and the lion skin, and I’ll carry the baggage.”
“As you please.”
They change parts accordingly. No sooner is this done, than a waiting maid of Queen Proserpine appears. “My dear Hercules,” she says, “come with me. As soon as my mistress heard of your being here she had a grand baking, made four or five gallons of soup, and roasted an ox whole.”
“Excellent,” cries the false Hercules.