“Have they souls?” he asked, pointing to the serfs.

“No,” said Nulli, “their ancestors may have had; but their souls have been bred out of their descendants; as the instinct of scent is killed in pointers.”

Approaching one of the serfs, Media took him by the hand, and felt of it long; and looked into his eyes; and placed his ear to his side; and exclaimed, “Surely this being has flesh that is warm; he has Oro in his eye; and a heart in him that beats.  I swear he is a man.”

“Is this our lord the king?” cried Mohi, starting.

“What art thou,” said Babbalanja to the serf.  “Dost ever feel in thee a sense of right and wrong?  Art ever glad or sad?—­They tell us thou art not a man:—­speak, then, for thyself; say, whether thou beliest thy Maker.”

“Speak not of my Maker to me.  Under the lash, I believe my masters, and account myself a brute; but in my dreams, bethink myself an angel.  But I am bond; and my little ones;—­their mother’s milk is gall.”

“Just Oro!” cried Yoomy, “do no thunders roll,—­no lightnings flash in this accursed land!”

“Asylum for all Mardi’s thralls!” cried Media.

“Incendiaries!” cried he with the wondrous eyes, “come ye, firebrands, to light the flame of revolt?  Know ye not, that here are many serfs, who, incited to obtain their liberty, might wreak some dreadful vengeance?  Avaunt, thou king! thou horrified at this?  Go back to Odo, and right her wrongs!  These serfs are happier than thine; though thine, no collars wear; more happy as they are, than if free.  Are they not fed, clothed, and cared for?  Thy serfs pine for food:  never yet did these; who have no thoughts, no cares.”

“Thoughts and cares are life, and liberty, and immortality!” cried Babbalanja; “and are their souls, then, blown out as candles?”

“Ranter! they are content,” cried Nulli.  “They shed no tears.”

“Frost never weeps,” said Babbalanja; “and tears are frozen in those frigid eyes.”

“Oh fettered sons of fettered mothers, conceived and born in manacles,” cried Yoomy; “dragging them through life; and falling with them, clanking in the grave:—­oh, beings as ourselves, how my stiff arm shivers to avenge you!  ’Twere absolution for the matricide, to strike one rivet from your chains.  My heart outswells its home!”

“Oro!  Art thou?” cried Babbalanja; “and doth this thing exist?  It shakes my little faith.”  Then, turning upon Null, “How can ye abide to sway this curs’d dominion?”

“Peace, fanatic!  Who else may till unwholesome fields, but these?  And as these beings are, so shall they remain; ’tis right and righteous!  Maramma champions it!—­I swear it!  The first blow struck for them, dissolves the union of Vivenza’s vales.  The northern tribes well know it; and know me.”

Said Media, “Yet if—­”

“No more! another word, and, king as thou art, thou shalt be dungeoned:—­here, there is such a law; thou art not among the northern tribes.”