“Sheer off! no landing here,” cried Media, “let us gain the sunny side; and like the care-free bachelor Abrazza, who here is king, turn our back on the isle’s shadowy side, and revel in its morning-meads.”

“And lord Abrazza:—­who is he?” asked Yoomy.

“The one hundred and twentieth in lineal descent from Phipora,” said
Mohi; “and connected on the maternal side to the lord seigniors of
Klivonia.  His uttermost uncle was nephew to the niece of Queen
Zmiglandi; who flourished so long since, she wedded at the first
Transit of Venus.  His pedigree is endless.”

“But who is lord Abrazza?”

“Has he not said?” answered Babbalanja.  “Why so dull?—­Uttermost nephew to him, who was nephew to the niece of the peerless Queen Zmiglandi; and the one hundred and twentieth in descent from the illustrious Phipora.”

“Will none tell, who Abrazza is?”

“Can not a man then, be described by running off the catalogue of his ancestors?” said Babbalanja.  “Or must we e’en descend to himself.  Then, listen, dull Yoomy! and know that lord Abrazza is six feet two:  plump thighs; blue eyes; and brown hair; likes his bread-fruit baked, not roasted; sometimes carries filberts in his crown:  and has a way of winking when he speaks.  His teeth are good.”

“Are you publishing some decamped burglar,” said Media, “that you speak thus of my royal friend, the lord Abrazza?  Go on, sir! and say he reigns sole king of Bonovona!”

“My lord, I had not ended.  Abrazza, Yoomy, is a fine and florid king:  high-fed, and affluent of heart; of speech, mellifluent.  And for a royalty extremely amiable.  He is a sceptered gentleman, who does much good.  Kind king! in person he gives orders for relieving those, who daily dive for pearls, to grace his royal robe; and gasping hard, with blood-shot eyes, come up from shark-infested depths, and fainting, lay their treasure at his feet.  Sweet lord Abrazza! how he pities those, who in his furthest woodlands day-long toil to do his bidding.  Yet king-philosopher, he never weeps; but pities with a placid smile; and that but seldom.”

“There seems much iron in your blood,” said Media.  “But say your say.”

“Say I not truth, my lord?  Abrazza, I admire.  Save his royal pity all else is jocund round him.  He loves to live for life’s own sake.  He vows he’ll have no cares; and often says, in pleasant reveries,—­ ’Sure, my lord Abrazza, if any one should be care-free, ’tis thou; who strike down none, but pity all the fallen!’ Yet none he lifteth up.”

At length we gained the sunny side, and shoreward tended.  Vee-Vee’s horn was sonorous; and issuing from his golden groves, my lord Abrazza, like a host that greets you on the threshold, met us, as we keeled the beach.

“Welcome! fellow demi-god, and king!  Media, my pleasant guest!”

His servitors salamed; his chieftains bowed; his yeoman-guard, in meadow-green, presented palm-stalks,—­royal tokens; and hand in hand, the nodding, jovial, regal friends, went up a lane of salutations; dragging behind, a train of envyings.