While they were talking, Raphael and the sea horse crossed the plateau and started to descend. The way became rough, and gigantic, moss-covered boulders blocked the path. The seaweed grew thicker, tangling into a rich brown and green jungle of limp branches through which Raphael found it increasingly difficult to force his way. Great lava mountains towered above them in ropy hills and cliffs, or overhung black pits which the rays of the sun could not pierce.
‘Where does the President live?’ asked Raphael after a long silence.
‘Not far from here. I suppose you know that they are all expecting you.’
‘Who is expecting me?’
‘His Excellency, the Cabinet, and the Admirals of the North and South Atlantic.’
‘Really?’ said Raphael, who had ceased to be surprised at anything. ‘Who told them I was coming?’
‘Gæa, the Queen Mother, sent us word,’ answered the sea horse as he dipped his body respectfully.
He seemed disinclined to say more and Raphael politely changed the subject.
‘Would you mind telling me your President’s name?’
‘Willingly,’ answered the sea horse. ‘The President of the Atlantic democracy is His Excellency, Mr. Albert Right Whale. He was elected, as you may have heard, on account of his size.’