“Off shore! off shore!” cried Media; and with all haste we gained a place of safety.

Down the valley now poured Rhines and Rhones of lava, a fire-freshet, flooding the forests from their fastnesses, and leaping with them into the seething sea.

The shore was lined with multitudes pushing off wildly in canoes.

Meantime, the fiery storm from Franko, kindled new flames in the distant valleys of Porpheero; while driven over from Verdanna came frantic shouts, and direful jubilees.  Upon Dominora a baleful glare was resting.

“Thrice cursed flames!” cried Media.  “Is Mardi to be one conflagration?  How it crackles, forks, and roars!—­Is this our funeral pyre?”

“Recline, recline, my lord,” said Babbalanja.  “Fierce flames are ever brief—­a song, sweet Yoomy!  Your pipe, old Mohi!  Greater fires than this have ere now blazed in Mardi.  Let us be calm;—­the isles were made to burn;—­Braid-Beard! hereafter, in some quiet cell, of this whole scene you will but make one chapter;—­come, digest it now.”

“My face is scorched,” cried Media.

“The last, last day!” cried Mohi.

“Not so, old man,” said Babbalanja, “when that day dawns, ’twill dawn serene.  Be calm, be calm, my potent lord.”

“Talk not of calm brows in storm-time!” cried Media fiercely.  “See! how the flames blow over upon Dominora!”

“Yet the fires they kindle there are soon extinguished,” said Babbalanja.  “No, no; Dominora ne’er can burn with Franko’s fires; only those of her own kindling may consume her.”

“Away!  Away!” cried Media.  “We may not touch Porpheero now.—­Up sails! and westward be our course.”

So dead before the blast, we scudded.

Morning broke, showing no sign of land.

“Hard must it go with Franko’s king,” said Media, “when his people rise against him with the red volcanoes.  Oh, for a foot to crush them!  Hard, too, with all who rule in broad Porpheero.  And may she we seek, survive this conflagration!”

“My lord,” said Babbalanja, “where’ere she hide, ne’er yet did Yillah lurk in this Porpheero; nor have we missed the maiden, noble Taji! in not touching at its shores.”

“This fire must make a desert of the land,” said Mohi; “burn up and bury all her tilth.”

“Yet, Mohi, vineyards flourish over buried villages,” murmured Yoomy.

“True, minstrel,” said Babbalanja, “and prairies are purified by fire.  Ashes breed loam.  Nor can any skill make the same surface forever fruitful.  In all times past, things have been overlaid; and though the first fruits of the marl are wild and poisonous, the palms at last spring forth; and once again the tribes repose in shade.  My lord, if calms breed storms, so storms calms; and all this dire commotion must eventuate in peace.  It may be, that Perpheero’s future has been cheaply won.”

CHAPTER L
Wherein King Media Celebrates The Glories Of Autumn, The Minstrel, The
Promise Of Spring