“They are arrant cannibals, Yoomy,” said Media, “and desire the privilege of eating each other up.”

“King Bello’s idea,” said Babbalanja; “but, in these things, my lord, you demi-gods are ever unanimous.  But, whatever be Verdanna’s demands, Bello persists in rejecting them.”

“Why not grant every thing she asks, even to renouncing all claim upon the isle,” said Mohi; “for thus, Bello would rid himself of many perplexities.”

“And think you, old man,” said Media, “that, bane or blessing, Bello will yield his birthright?  Will a tri-crowned king resign his triple diadem?  And even did Bello what you propose he would only breed still greater perplexities.  For if granted, full soon would Verdanna be glad to surrender many things she demands.  And all she now asks, she has had in times past; but without turning it to advantage:—­and is she wiser now?”

“Does she not demand her harvests, my lord?” said Yoomy, “and has not the reaper a right to his sheaf?”

“Cant! cant!  Yoomy.  If you reap for me, the sheaf is mine.”

“But if the reaper reaps on his own harvest-field, whose then the sheaf, my lord?” said Babbalanja.

“His for whom he reaps—­his lord’s!”

“Then let the reaper go with sickle and with sword,” said Yoomy, “with one hand, cut down the bearded grain; and with the other, smite his bearded lords.”

“Thou growest fierce, in thy lyric moods, my warlike dove,” said ’Media, blandly.  “But for thee, philosopher, know thou, that Verdanna’s men are of blood and brain inferior to Bello’s native race; and the better Mardian must ever rule.”

“Verdanna inferior to Dominora, my lord!—­Has she produced no bards, no orators, no wits, no patriots?  Mohi, unroll thy chronicles!  Tell me, if Verdanna may not claim full many a star along King Bello’s tattooed arm of Fame?

“Even so,” said Mohi.  “Many chapters bear you out.”

“But my lord,” said Babbalanja, “as truth, omnipresent, lurks in all things, even in lies:  so, does some germ of it lurk in the calumnies heaped on the people of this land.  For though they justly boast of many lustrous names, these jewels gem no splendid robe.  And though like a bower of grapes, Verdanna is full of gushing juices, spouting out in bright sallies of wit, yet not all her grapes make wine; and here and there, hang goodly clusters mildewed; or half devoured by worms, bred in their own tendrils.”

“Drop, drop your grapes and metaphors!” cried Media.  “Bring forth your thoughts like men; let them come naked into Mardi.—­What do you mean, Babbalanja?”

“This, my lord, Verdanna’s worst evils are her own, not of another’s giving.  Her own hand is her own undoer.  She stabs herself with bigotry, superstition, divided councils, domestic feuds, ignorance, temerity; she wills, but does not; her East is one black storm-cloud, that never bursts; her utmost fight is a defiance; she showers reproaches, where she should rain down blows.  She stands a mastiff baying at the moon.”