“Yoomy’s rendering of the truth,” said Mohi.

“Why land, then?” said Media.  “No merry man of sense—­no demi-god like me, will do it.  Let’s away; let’s see all that’s pleasant, or that seems so, in our circuit, and, if possible, shun the sad.”

“Then we have circled not the round reef wholly,” said Babbalanja, “but made of it a segment.  For this is far from being the first sad land, my lord, that we have slighted at your instance.”

“No more.  I will have no gloom.  A chorus! there, ye paddlers! spread all your sails; ply paddles; breeze up, merry winds!”

And so, in the saffron sunset, we neared another shore.

A gloomy-looking land! black, beetling crags, rent by volcanic clefts; ploughed up with water-courses, and dusky with charred woods.  The beach was strewn with scoria and cinders; in dolorous soughs, a chill wind blew; wails issued from the caves; and yellow, spooming surges, lashed the moaning strand.

“Shall we land?” said Babbalanja.

“Not here,” cried Yoomy; “no Yillah here.”

“No,” said Media.  “This is another of those lands far better to avoid.”

“Know ye not,” said Mohi, “that here are the mines of King Klanko, whose scourged slaves, toiling in their pits, so nigh approach the volcano’s bowels, they hear its rumblings?  ‘Yet they must work on,’ cries Klanko, ‘the mines still yield!’ And daily his slaves’ bones are brought above ground, mixed with the metal masses.”

“Set all sail there, men! away!”

“My lord,” said Babbalanja; “still must we shim the unmitigated evil; and only view the good; or evil so mixed therewith, the mixture’s both?”

Half vailed in misty clouds, the harvest-moon now rose; and in that pale and haggard light, all sat silent; each man in his own secret mood:  best knowing his own thoughts.

CHAPTER LXXIX Babbalanja At The Full Of The Moon

“Ho, mortals!  Go we to a funeral, that our paddles seem thus muffled?  Up heart, Taji! or does that witch Hautia haunt thee?  Be a demi-god once more, and laugh.  Her flowers are not barbs; and the avengers’ arrows are too blunt to slay.  Babbalanja!  Mohi!  Yoomy! up heart! up heart!—­By Oro!  I will debark the whole company on the next land we meet.  No tears for me.  Ha, ha! let us laugh.  Ho, Vee-Vee! awake; quick, boy,—­some wine! and let us make glad, beneath the glad moon.  Look! it is stealing forth from its clouds.  Perdition to Hautia!  Long lives, and merry ones to ourselves!  Taji, my charming fellow, here’s to you:—­May your heart be a stone!  Ha, ha!—­will nobody join me?  My laugh is lonely as his who laughed in his tomb.  Come, laugh; will no one quaff wine, I say?  See! the round moon is abroad.”