But now the silence was broken by a strange, distant, intermitted melody in the water.

Gazing over the side, we saw naught but a far-darting ray in its depths.

Then Yoomy, before buried in a reverie, burst forth with a verse, sudden as a jet from a Geyser.

    Like the fish of the bright and twittering fin,
      Bright fish! diving deep as high soars the lark,
    So, far, far, far, doth the maiden swim,
      Wild song, wild light, in still ocean’s dark.

“What maiden, minstrel?” cried Media.

“None of these,” answered Yoomy, pointing out a shallop gliding near.

“The damsels three:—­Taji, they pursue you yet.”  That still canoe drew nigh, the Iris in its prow.

Gliding slowly by, one damsel flung a Venus-car, the leaves yet fresh.

Said Yoomy—­“Fly to love.”

The second maiden flung a pallid blossom, buried in hemlock leaves.

Said Yoomy, starting—­“I have wrought a death.”

Then came showering Venus-cars, and glorious moss-roses numberless, and odorous handfuls of Verbena.

Said Yoomy—­“Yet fly, oh fly to me:  all rosy joys and sweets are mine.”

Then the damsels floated on.

“Was ever queen more enigmatical?” cried Media—­“Love,—­death,—­joy, —­fly to me?  But what says Taji?”

“That I turn not back for Hautia; whoe’er she be, that wild witch I contemn.”

“Then spread our pinions wide! a breeze! up sails! ply paddles all!  Come, Flora’s flute, float forth a song.”

To pieces picking the thorny roses culled from Hautia’s gifts, and holding up their blighted cores, thus plumed and turbaned Yoomy sang, leaning against the mast:—­

    Oh! royal is the rose,
      But barbed with many a dart;
    Beware, beware the rose,
      ’Tis cankered at the heart.

      Sweet, sweet the sunny down,
    Oh! lily, lily, lily down! 
      Sweet, sweet, Verbena’s bloom! 
    Oh! pleasant, gentle, musky bloom!

    Dread, dread the sunny down;
      Lo! lily-hooded asp;
    Blooms, blooms no more Verbena;
      White-withered in your clasp.

CHAPTER LXXXIX Braid-Beard Rehearses The Origin Of The Isle Of Rogues

Judge not things by their names.  This, the maxim illustrated respecting the isle toward which we were sailing.

Ohonoo was its designation, in other words the Land of Rogues.  So what but a nest of villains and pirates could one fancy it to be:  a downright Tortuga, swarming with “Brethren of the coast,”—­such as Montbars, L’Ollonais, Bartolomeo, Peter of Dieppe, and desperadoes of that kidney.  But not so.  The men of Ohonoo were as honest as any in Mardi.  They had a suspicious appellative for their island, true; but not thus seemed it to them.  For, upon nothing did they so much plume themselves as upon this very name.  Why?  Its origin went back to old times; and being venerable they gloried therein; though they disclaimed its present applicability to any of their race; showing, that words are but algebraic signs, conveying no meaning except what you please.  And to be called one thing, is oftentimes to be another.