“Yoomy! here you will find stuff for your songs:—­blue rivers flowing through forest arches, and vineyards; velvet meads, soft as ottomans:  bright maidens braiding the golden locks of the harvest; and a background of mountains, that seem the end of the world.  Or if nature will not content you, then turn to the landscapes of art.  See! mosaic walls, tattooed like our faces; paintings, vast as horizons; and into which, you feel you could rush:  See! statues to which you could off turban; cities of columns standing thick as mankind; and firmanent domes forever shedding their sunsets of gilding:  See! spire behind spire, as if the land were the ocean, and all Bello’s great navy were riding at anchor.

“Noble Taji! you seek for your Yillah;—­give over despair!  Porpheero’s such a scene of enchantment, that there, the lost maiden must lurk.”

“A glorious picture!” cried Babbalanja, but turn the medal, my lord;—­ what says the reverse?”

“Cynic! have done.—­But bravo! we’ll ere long be in Franko, the goodliest vale of them all; how I long to take her old king by the hand!”

The sun was now setting behind us, lighting up the white cliffs of Dominora, and the green capes of Verdanna; while in deep shade lay before us the long winding shores of Porpheero.

It was a sunset serene.

“How the winds lowly warble in the dying day’s ear,” murmured Yoomy.

“A mild, bright night, we’ll have,” said Media.

“See you not those clouds over Franko, my lord,” said Mohi, shaking his head.

“Ah, aged and weather-wise as ever, sir chronicler;—­I predict a fair night, and many to follow.”

“Patience needs no prophet,” said Babbalanja.  “The night, is at hand.”

Hitherto the lagoon had been smooth:  but anon, it grew black, and stirred; and out of the thick darkness came clamorous sounds.  Soon, there shot into the air a vivid meteor, which bursting at the zenith, radiated down the firmament in fiery showers, leaving treble darkness behind.

Then as all held their breath, from Franko there spouted an eruption, which seemed to plant all Mardi in the foreground.

As when Vesuvius lights her torch, and in the blaze, the storm-swept surges in Naples’ bay rear and plunge toward it; so now, showed Franko’s multitudes, as they stormed the summit where their monarch’s palace blazed, fast by the burning mountain.

“By my eternal throne!” cried Media, starting, “the old volcano has burst forth again!”

“But a new vent, my lord,” said Babbalanja.

“More fierce this, than the eruption which happened in my youth,” said Mohi—­“methinks that Franko’s end has come.”

“You look pale, my lord,” said Babbalanja, “while all other faces glow;—­Yoomy, doff that halo in the presence of a king.”

Over the waters came a rumbling sound, mixed with the din of warfare, and thwarted by showers of embers that fell not, for the whirling blasts.