Within the air-ship all was perfect silence, but from without there came in faintly occasional symptoms of life--the bark of a dog, a loud laugh, the cry of a child. Droop slowly came to his feet and gazed about. A faint gleam of daylight found its way past the closed shutters. He raised the blinds and blinked as he gazed out into a perfect thicket of trees and shrubbery, beyond which here and there he thought he could distinguish a high brick wall. "Well, we're in the country, anyhow!" he muttered. He turned and consulted the date indicator in the ceiling. "May 1, 1598," he said. "Great Jonah! but we hev whirled back fer keeps! I s'pose we jest whirled till she broke loose." He gazed about him and observed that the two state-room doors were open. He walked over and looked in. "I wonder where them women went," he said. "Seems like they were in a tremendous hurry 'bout gettin' way. Lucky 'tain't a city we're in, 'cause they might'v got lost in the city." After an attempt to improve his somewhat rumpled exterior, he made his way down the stairs and out into the garden. Once here, he quickly discovered the building which had arrested the attention of the two women, but it being now broad daylight, he was able thoroughly to satisfy himself that chance had brought the Panchronicon into the deserted garden of a deserted mansion. "Wal, we'll be private an' cosy here till the Panchronicon hez time to store up more force," he said out loud. Strolling forward, he skirted the high wall, and ere long discovered the very opening through which the sisters had passed at sunrise. Stepping through the breach, he found himself, as they had done, near the main London highway in Newington village. The hurly-burly of sunrise had abated by this time, for wellnigh all the villagers were absent celebrating the day around their respective May-poles or at bear or bull-baiting. With his hands behind him, he walked soberly up and down for a few minutes, carefully surveying the pretty wooden houses, the church in the distance, and the stones of the churchyard on the green hill-slope beyond. The architecture was not entirely unfamiliar. He had seen such in books, he felt sure, but he could not positively identify it. Was it Russian, Japanese, or Italian? Suddenly a distant cry came to his ears. "Hi--Lizzie--Lizzie, wench! Come, drive the pig out o' the cabbages!" He stopped short and slapped his thigh. "English!" he exclaimed. "'Tain't America, that's dead sure. Then it's England. England in 1598," he continued, scratching his head. "Let's see. Who in Sam Hill was runnin' things in 1598? Richard Coor de Lion--Henry Eight--no--or was it Joan of Arc? Be darned ef I know!" He looked about him again and selected a neighboring house which he thought promised information. He went to the front door and knocked. There was no reply, despite many attempts to arouse the inmates.