“If madam will permit me,” said I, with a bow to Callisto.

“Thank you kindly,” the bear replied, in that same thrillingly sweet voice, and dancing with joy.  “You are a dear, good man, and if you ever have an enemy, let me know and I’ll hug him to death.”

As we again turned to go, Cephalus laughed.  “Queer case that!” he said.  “You’d have thought Juno would let up on that poor woman, but she doesn’t for a little bit.”

“Well—­a jealous woman, my dear Cephalus—­”

“True,” said he.  “That’s all true enough, but, great Heavens, man, Juno ought to be used to it by this time with a husband like Jupiter.  She’s overstocked this Zoo a dozen times already with her jealous freaks, and Jupiter hasn’t reformed once.  What good does it do?”

“Doesn’t she ever let ’em off?” I asked.  “Doesn’t Callisto ever have a Sunday out, for instance?”

“Yes, but always as a bear, and the poor creature doesn’t dare take her chance with the other wild beasts—­the real ones.  She’s just as afraid of bears as she ever was, and if she sees a plain, every-day cow coming towards her, she runs shrieking back to her pit again.”

“Poor Callisto,” said I.  “And Actaeon?  How about him?”

“He’s here—­but he’s a holy terror,” replied Cephalus, shaking his head.  “He gets loose once in a while, and then everybody has to look out for himself, and frankly,” Cephalus added, his voice sinking to a whisper, “I don’t blame him.  Diana treated him horribly.”

“I always thought so,” said I.  “He really wasn’t to blame.”

“Certainly not,” observed Cephalus.  “If people will go in swimming out-of-doors, it’s their own fault if chance wayfarers stumble upon them.  To turn a man into a stag and then set his own dogs on him for a thing he couldn’t help strikes me as rank injustice.”

“Wonder to me that Jupiter doesn’t interfere in this business,” said I.  “He could help Callisto out without much trouble.”

“The point about that is that he’s afraid,” Cephalus explained.  “Juno has threatened to sue him for divorce if he does, and he doesn’t dare brave the scandal.”

We had by this time reached a long, low building that looked like a stable, and, as we entered, Cephalus observed: 

“This is our fire-proof building where we keep our inflammable beasts.  That big, sleeping creature that looks like a mastodon lizard is the dragon that your friend St. George, of London, got the best of, and sent here with his compliments.  I’ll give the beast a prod and let you see how he works.”

Cephalus was as good as his word, and for a moment I wished he wasn’t.  Such a din as that which followed the dragon’s awakening I never heard before, and every time the horrible beast opened his jaws it was as if a fire-works factory had exploded.

“Very dangerous creature that,” said Cephalus.  “But he is splendid for fetes.  Shows off beautifully in the dark.  I’ll prod him again and just you note the prismatic coloring of his flames.  Get up there, Fido,” he added, poking the dragon with his stick a second time.  “Wake up, and give the gentleman an illumination.”