of London was then pushed from us with a pole. We were launched on
night, which had begun its ebb towards morning.

The punt sidled away obliquely for mid-stream. I stood at one end of
it. The figure of Charon could be seen at the other, of long
acquaintance with this passage, using his sweep with the indifference
of habitude. Perhaps it was not Charon. Yet there was some
obstruction to the belief that we were bound for no more than the
steamer _Aldebaran_, anchored in Bugsby's Reach. From the low deck of
the barge it was surprising that the River, whose name was Night, was
content with the height to which it had risen. Perhaps it was taking
its time. It might soon receive an influx from space, rise then in a
silent upheaval, and those low shadows that were London, even now half
foundered, would at once go. This darkness was an irresponsible power.
It was the same flood which had sunk Knossos and Memphis. It was
tranquil, indifferent, knowing us not, reckoning us all one with the
Sumerians. They were below it. It had risen above them. Now the time
had come when it was laving the base of London.

The crew cried out to us that over there was the entrance to the West
India Dock. We knew that place in another life. But should Charon
joke with us? We saw only chaos, in which the beams from a reputed
city glimmered without purpose.

The shadow of the master of our black barge pulled at his sweep with a
slow confidence that was fearful amid what was sightless and unknown.
His pipe glowed, as with the profanity of an immortal to whom eternity
and infinity are of the usual significance. Then a red and green eye
appeared astern, and there was a steady throbbing as if some monster
were in pursuit of us. A tug shaped near us, drew level, and exposed