“‘Tom,’ said my grand-dad, ‘it is possible enough, you know, that this river may run but a few more miles, then emerge into the light.’
“‘Oh, wouldn’t that be glorious!’ cried Tom.
“‘Well, let us push off again, and try to keep awake.’
“Tom extinguished the torch, and the boats were once more shoved into the stream.
“‘John,’ said Tom after a time.
“‘Yes, Tom.’
“‘Don’t you remember when we were at school reading in heathen books of the awful river Styx, that flows nine times round the abode of the dead.’
“‘Ay, Tom, and we seem on it now. It would hardly surprise me to see a door open in the rock, and the three-headed dog Cerberus appear, or the fearful ferryman.’
“The boats rushed on now for hours, without ever grounding, though at times they touched at either side; and all this time those poor despairing souls sat hand in hand, for the silence was as saddening as even the darkness.