Said Mohi and Yoomy in a breath, “Who sought your opinion, philosopher? you filcher from old Bardianna, and monger of maxims!”

“You, who have so long marked the vices of Mardi, that you flatter yourself you have none of your own,” added Braid-Beard.

“You, who only seem wise, because of the contrasting follies of others, and not of any great wisdom in yourself,” continued the minstrel, with unwonted asperity.”

“Now here,” said Babballanja, “am I charged upon by a bearded old ram, and a lamb.  One butting with his carious and brittle old frontlet; the other pushing with its silly head before its horns are sprouted.  But this comes of being impartial.  Had I espoused the cause of Yoomy versus Mohi, or that of Mohi versus Yoomy, I had been sure to have had at least one voice in my favor.  The impartialist insulteth all sides, saith old Bardianna; but smite with but one hand, and the other shall be kissed.—­Oh incomparable Bardianna!”

“Will no one lay that troubled old ghost,” exclaimed Media, devoutly.  “Proceed with thy legend, Yoomy; and see to it, that it be brief; for I mistrust me, these legends do but test the patience of the hearers.  But draw a long breath, and begin.”

“A long bow,” muttered Mohi.

And Yoomy began.

“It is now about ten hundred thousand moons—­”

“Great Oro!  How long since, say you?” cried Mohi, making Gothic arches of his brows.

Looking at him disdainfully, but vouchsafing no reply, Yoomy began over again.

“It is now above ten hundred thousand moons, since there died the last of a marvelous race, once inhabiting the very shores by which we are sailing.  They were a very diminutive people, only a few inches high—­”

“Stop, minstrel,” cried Mohi; “how many pennyweights did they weigh?”

Continued Yoomy, unheedingly, “They were covered all over with a soft, silky down, like that on the rind of the Avee; and there grew upon their heads a green, lance-leaved vine, of a most delicate texture.  For convenience, the manikins reduced their tendrils, sporting, nothing but coronals.  Whereas, priding themselves upon the redundancy of their tresses, the little maidens assiduously watered them with the early dew of the morning; so that all wreathed and festooned with verdure, they moved about in arbors, trailing after them trains.”

“I can hear no more,” exclaimed Mohi, stopping his ears.

Continued Yoomy, “The damsels lured to their bowers, certain red-plumaged insect-birds, and taught them to nestle therein, and warble; which, with the pleasant vibrating of the leaves, when the little maidens moved, produced a strange blending of sweet, singing sounds.  The little maidens embraced not with their arms, but with their viny locks; whose tendrils instinctively twined about their lovers, till both were lost in the bower.”

“And what then?” asked Mohi, who, notwithstanding the fingers in his ears, somehow contrived to listen; “What then?”