Mr.  “Mishrush” seemed not a little relieved at nearing company after his lonely walk; triumphant, too, at having guided me hither so cunningly.  He lifted his nimble cudgel in the air and waved it conceitedly to and fro in time to the song that rose beyond the window.  “Fau’ow er Wur’!—­Fau’ow er Wur’!” he cried delightedly again and again in my ear, eager apparently for my approval.  So we stood, then, beneath the starless sky, listening to the rich choragium of the “World’s End.”  They sang in unison, sang with a kind of forlorn heat and enthusiasm.  And when the song was ended, and the roar of applause over, Night, like a darkened water whelmed silently in, engulfed it to the echo: 

    Follow the World—­
      She bursts the grape,
    And dandles man
      In her green lap;
    She moulds her Creature
      From the clay,
    And crumbles him
      To dust away: 
        Follow the World!

    One Draught, one Feast,
      One Wench, one Tomb;
    And thou must straight
      To ashes come: 
    Drink, eat, and sleep;
      Why fret and pine? 
    Death can but snatch
      What ne’er was thine: 
        Follow the World!

It died away, I say, and an ostler softly appeared out of the shadow.  Into his charge, then, I surrendered Rosinante, and followed my inarticulate acquaintance into the noise and heat and lustre of the Inn.

It was a numerous company there assembled.  But their voices fell to a man on the entry of a stranger.  They scrutinised me, not uncivilly, but closely, seeking my badge, as it were by which to recognise and judge me ever after.

Mr. Mistrust, as I presently discovered my guide’s name indeed to be, was volubly explaining how I came into his company.  They listened intently to what, so far as I could gather, might be Houyhnhnmish or Double-Dutch.  And then, as if to show me to my place forthwith, a great fleshy fellow that sat close beside the hearth this summer evening continued in a loud voice the conversation I had interrupted.

Whereupon Mr. Mistrust with no little confidence commended me in dumb show to the landlady of the Inn, a Mrs. Nature, if I understood him aright.  This person was still comely, though of uncertain age, wore cherry ribbons, smiled rather vacantly from vague, wonderful, indescribable eyes that seemed to change colour, like the chameleon, according to that they dwelt on.

I am afraid, as much to my amusement as wonder, I discovered that this landlady of so much apparent bonhomie was a deaf-mute.  If victuals, or drink, or bed were required, one must chalk it down on a little slate she carried at her girdle for the purpose.  Indeed, the absence of two of her three chief senses had marvellously sharpened the remaining one.  Her eyes were on all, vaguely dwelling, lightly gone, inscrutable, strangely fascinating.  She moved easily and soundlessly (as fat women may), and I doubt if ever mug or pot of any of that talkative throng remained long empty, except at the tippler’s reiterated request.