One only constellation was beheld; but every star was brilliant as the one, that promises the morning.  That constellation was the Crux-Australis,—­the badge, and type of Alma.

And now, southwest we steered, till another island vast, was reached; —­Hamora! far trending toward the Antarctic Pole.

Coasting on by barbarous beaches, where painted men, with spears, charged on all attempts to land, at length we rounded a mighty bluff, lit by a beacon; and heard a bugle call:—­Bello’s! hurrying to their quarters, the World-End’s garrison.

Here, the sea rolled high, in mountain surges:  mid which, we toiled and strained, as if ascending cliffs of Caucasus.

But not long thus.  As when from howling Rhoetian heights, the traveler spies green Lombardy below, and downward rushes toward that pleasant plain; so, sloping from long rolling swells, at last we launched upon the calm lagoon.

But as we northward sailed, once more the storm-trump blew, and charger-like, the seas ran mustering to the call; and in battalions crouched before a towering rock, far distant from the main.  No moon, eclipsed in Egypt’s skies, looked half so lone.  But from out that darkness, on the loftiest peak, Bello’s standard waved.

“Oh rifled tomb!” cried Babbalanja.  “Wherein lay the Mars and Moloch of our times, whose constellated crown, was gemmed with diadems.  Thou god of war! who didst seem the devouring Beast of the Apocalypse; casting so vast a shadow over Mardi, that yet it lingers in old Franko’s vale; where still they start at thy tremendous ghost; and, late, have hailed a phantom, King!  Almighty hero-spell! that after the lapse of half a century, can so bewitch all hearts!  But one drop of hero-blood will deify a fool.

“Franko! thou wouldst be free; yet thy free homage is to the buried ashes of a King; thy first choice, the exaltation of his race.  In furious fires, thou burn’st Ludwig’s throne; and over thy new-made chieftain’s portal, in golden letters print’st—­’The Palace of our Lord!’ In thy New Dispensation, thou cleavest to the exploded Law.  And on Freedom’s altar—­ah, I fear—­still, may slay thy hecatombs.  But Freedom turns away; she is sick with burnt blood of offerings.  Other rituals she loves; and like Oro, unseen herself, would be worshiped only by invisibles.  Of long drawn cavalcades, pompous processions, frenzied banners, mystic music, marching nations, she will none.  Oh, may thy peaceful Future, Franko, sanctify thy bloody Past.  Let not history say; ‘To her old gods, she turned again.’”

This rocky islet passed, the sea went down; once more we neared Hamora’s western shore.  In the deep darkness, here and there, its margin was lit up by foam-white, breaking billows rolled over from Vivenza’s strand, and down from northward Dominora; marking places where light was breaking in, upon the interior’s jungle-gloom.

In heavy sighs, the night-winds from shore came over us.