“But how enlarge your bounds? how convert the vicious, without persuasion of some special seers?  Must your religion go hand in hand with all things secular?”

“We hold not, that one man’s words should be a gospel to the rest; but that Alma’s words should be a gospel to us all.  And not by precepts would we have some few endeavor to persuade; but all, by practice, fix convictions, that the life we lead is the life for all.  We are apostles, every one.  Where’er we go, our faith we carry in our hands, and hearts.  It is our chiefest joy.  We do not put it wide away six days out of seven; and then, assume it.  In it we all exult, and joy; as that which makes us happy here; as that, without which, we could be happy nowhere; as something meant for this time present, and henceforth for aye.  It is our vital mode of being; not an incident.  And when we die, this faith shall be our pillow; and when we rise, our staff; and at the end, our crown.  For we are all immortal.  Here, Alma joins with our own hearts, confirming nature’s promptings.”

“How eloquent he is!” murmured Babbalanja.  “Some black cloud seems floating from me.  I begin to see.  I come out in light.  The sharp fang tears me less.  The forked flames wane.  My soul sets back like ocean streams, that sudden change their flow.  Have I been sane?  Quickened in me is a hope.  But pray you, old man—­say on—­methinks, that in your faith must be much that jars with reason.”

“No, brother!  Right-reason, and Alma, are the same; else Alma, not reason, would we reject.  The Master’s great command is Love; and here do all things wise, and all things good, unite.  Love is all in all.  The more we love, the more we know; and so reversed.  Oro we love; this isle; and our wide arms embrace all Mardi like its reef.  How can we err, thus feeling?  We hear loved Alma’s pleading, prompting voice, in every breeze, in every leaf; we see his earnest eye in every star and flower.”

“Poetry!” cried Yoomy; “and poetry is truth!  He stirs me.”

“When Alma dwelt in Mardi, ’twas with the poor and friendless.  He fed the famishing; he healed the sick; he bound up wounds.  For every precept that he spoke, he did ten thousand mercies.  And Alma is our loved example.”

“Sure, all this is in the histories!” said Mohi, starting.

“But not alone to poor and friendless, did Alma wend his charitable way.  From lowly places, he looked up; and long invoked great chieftains in their state; and told them all their pride was vanity; and bade them ask their souls.  ‘In me,’ he cried, ’is that heart of mild content, which in vain ye seek in rank and title.  I am Love:  love ye then me.’”

“Cease, cease, old man!” cried Media; “thou movest me beyond my seeming.  What thoughts are these?  Have done!  Wouldst thou unking me?”