Discipula. Wouldn’t you like to be a pirate, though? I would; and roam over the ocean at my own free will; and through the storm and spray, and lightning-glances of the wild midnight, dash on my fleeing victim like the eagle on his prey! All hands on deck to get on more sail! Stand by to unfurl the main-sail to the tempest!
Piscator. Will it please you, my fair pilot, to inform me whither you are taking us?
Discipula. I am going to run into that cloud yonder; the one before us, with the thunder on its inside and the lightning on its out.
Piscator. What you call a cloud appears to me to be a hill, that rises a few rods back from the shore.
Discipula. Oh, it’s a cloud—a cloud! And there is a star that glimmers through it.
Piscator. I see nothing but the twinkling of a taper, from the window of some dwelling.
Discipula. I tell you it’s a star—a star! The cloud has settled down into the water like a mountain; and through its base penetrates a tunnel, through which the ray of that star comes—a long, straight cavern, arched overhead and on either side by wreathed and rolling pillars of smoke. I’ll put up the helm and run into it! Bear up! bear up! bear stoutly up, my brave, bold bark! and plunge forward like the horse into the smoke of battle, through this path to the subterranean abodes!
Piscator. Let me take the tiller! Let it go! Put it around quick then; you are running on the beach!
Discipula. Why don’t you see we are just entering the dark mouth of the tunnel? We shall soon be into it.
Piscator. Hark! here it comes! Now hold hard, for there we are, grounded and staved!