“Alma is for all; for high and low.  Like heaven’s own breeze, he lifts the lily from its lowly stem, and sweeps, reviving, through the palmy groves.  High thoughts he gives the sage, and humble trust the simple.  Be the measure what it may, his grace doth fill it to the brim.  He lays the lashings of the soul’s wild aspirations after things unseen; oil he poureth on the waters; and stars come out of night’s black concave at his great command.  In him is hope for all; for all, unbounded joys.  Fast locked in his loved clasp, no doubts dismay.  He opes the eye of faith and shuts the eye of fear.  He is all we pray for, and beyond; all, that in the wildest hour of ecstasy, rapt fancy paints in bright Auroras upon the soul’s wide, boundless Orient!”

“Oh, Alma, Alma! prince divine!” cried Babbalanja, sinking on his knees—­“in thee, at last, I find repose.  Hope perches in my heart a dove;—­a thousand rays illume;—­all Heaven’s a sun.  Gone, gone! are all distracting doubts.  Love and Alma now prevail.  I see with other eyes:—­Are these my hands?  What wild, wild dreams were mine;—­I have been mad.  Some things there are, we must not think of.  Beyond one obvious mark, all human lore is vain.  Where have I lived till now?  Had dark Maramma’s zealot tribe but murmured to me as this old man, long since had I, been wise!  Reason no longer domineers; but still doth speak.  All I have said ere this, that wars with Alma’s precepts, I here recant.  Here I kneel, and own great Oro and his sovereign son.”

“And here another kneels and prays,” cried Yoomy.

“In Alma all my dreams are found, my inner longings for the Love supreme, that prompts my every verse.  Summer is in my soul.”

“Nor now, too late for these gray hairs,” cried Mohi, with devotion.  “Alma, thy breath is on my soul.  I see bright light.”

“No more a demigod,” cried Media, “but a subject to our common chief.  No more shall dismal cries be heard from Odo’s groves.  Alma, I am thine.”

With swimming eyes the old man kneeled; and round him grouped king, sage, gray hairs, and youth.

There, as they kneeled, and as the old man blessed them, the setting sun burst forth from mists, gilded the island round about, shed rays upon their heads, and went down in a glory—­all the East radiant with red burnings, like an altar-fire.

CHAPTER LXXXIV Babbalanja Relates To Them A Vision

Leaving Babbalanja in the old man’s bower, deep in meditation; thoughtfully we strolled along the beach, inspiring the musky, midnight air; the tropical stars glistening in heaven, like drops of dew among violets.

The waves were phosphorescent, and laved the beach with a fire that cooled it.

Returning, we espied Babbalanja advancing in his snow-white mantle.  The fiery tide was ebbing; and in the soft, moist sand, at every step, he left a lustrous foot-print.