“Look, look! my lord,” cried Yoomy, “what a glorious shore we pass.”

Sallying out into the high golden noon, with golden-beaming goblets suspended, we gazed.

“This must be Kolumbo of the south,” said Mohi.

It was a long, hazy reach of land; piled up in terraces, traced here and there with rushing streams, that worked up gold dust alluvian, and seemed to flash over pebbled diamonds.  Heliotropes, sun-flowers, marigolds gemmed, or starred the violet meads, and vassal-like, still sunward bowed their heads.  The rocks were pierced with grottoes, blazing with crystals, many-tinted.

It was a land of mints and mines; its east a ruby; west a topaz.  Inland, the woodlands stretched an ocean, bottomless with foliage; its green surges bursting through cable-vines; like Xerxes’ brittle chains which vainly sought to bind the Hellespont.  Hence flowed a tide of forest sounds; of parrots, paroquets, macaws; blent with the howl of jaguars, hissing of anacondas, chattering of apes, and herons screaming.

Out from those depths up rose a stream.

The land lay basking in the world’s round torrid brisket, hot with solar fire.

“No need here to land,” cried Yoomy, “Yillah lurks not here.”

“Heat breeds life, and sloth, and rage,” said Babbalanja.  “Here live bastard tribes and mongrel nations; wrangling and murdering to prove their freedom.—­Refill, my lord.”

“Methinks, Babbalanja, you savor of the mysterious parchment, in Vivenza read:—­Ha?  Yes, philosopher, these are the men, who toppled castles to make way for hovels; these, they who fought for freedom, but find it despotism to rule themselves.  These, Babbalanja, are of the race, to whom a tyrant would prove a blessing.”  So saying he drained his cup.

“My lord, that last sentiment decides the authorship of the scroll.  But, with deference, tyrants seldom can prove blessings; inasmuch as evil seldom eventuates in good.  Yet will these people soon have a tyrant over them, if long they cleave to war.  Of many javelins, one must prove a scepter; of many helmets, one a crown.  It is but in the wearing.—­Refill, my lord.”

“Fools, fools!” cried Media, “these tribes hate us kings; yet know not, that Peace is War against all kings.  We seldom are undone by spears, which are our ministers.—­This wine is strong.”

“Ha, now’s the time!  In his cups learn king-craft from a king.  Ay, ay, my lord, your royal order will endure, so long as men will fight.  Break the spears, and free the nations.  Kings reap the harvests that wave on battle-fields.  And oft you kings do snatch the aloe-flower, whose slow blossoming mankind watches for a hundred years.—­Say on, my lord.”

“All this I know; and, therefore, rest content.  My children’s children will be kings; though, haply, called by other titles.  Mardi grows fastidious in names:  we royalties will humor it.  The steers would burst their yokes, but have not hands.  The whole herd rears and plunges, but soon will bow again:  the old, old way!”