to his death beneath yonder castle's walls. That
seeming birch-stump on the farther shore was the castle champion,
armed cap-a-pie in silver harness and ready with drawn sword to do
battle against all comers. Trim the sail, ferryman, and steer thy
skilfullest!

The kind of insanity which sees in outward manifestation the fantasies
of the mind is an affection incident at times to every one. An artist
sees beauties in a landscape, an artisan in pulleys and levers, and
either may be so far insane in the eyes of the other. Nature discovers
grandeur, beauty, or truth according as the quality abides in the
seer. In this view Balder or Don Quixote was no more insane than other
people. Their eyes bore true witness to what was in their minds, and
the sanest eyes can do no more. Their minds were, perhaps, out of
focus; but who can cast the first stone?

The skipper, when not masquerading as Charon, was a lean, brown, and
wrinkled old salt, neither complete nor clean of garb, and bulging as
to one lank cheek with a quid of tobacco. At first he sat silent,
dividing his attention between the conduct of his boat and his
passenger.

"Whereabouts will yer land, Captain?" he asked when they were fairly
under way.

"Wherever there is a path upwards. Who is the owner of the castle?"

"The castle? Well, there ain't many rightly knows just what his name
is," answered Charon, cocking his gray eye rather quizzically. "Some
says one thing, some another. I have heard tell he was Davy Jones
himself!"

"Have you ever seen him?"

"Well, I don't know; I've seen something that might have been him; but
there's no telling! he can fix himself up to look like pretty much
anything, they say. There ain't many calls up to the castle, anyway."

"Why not?"

"Well, there's a big wall all around the place, for one thing, and
never a gate in it; so without yer dives under ground and up again,
there don't seem no easy way of getting in."

"Does the owner never come out, then?"

"Well, he can get out, I expect, when he wants to," replied the
wrinkled humorist, with a weather-beaten grin. "They do say he whips
off on a broomstick about once a month and steers for Bos-ton!" His
fashion of utterance was a leisurely sing-song, like the roll of a
vessel anchored in a ground-swell.

"Why does he go there?" demanded Prince Balder, with the air of
finding nothing extravagant or improbable in the sailor's yarn. The
latter (a little doubting whether his in