“’Twas thus.  These were tombs burst open by volcanic throes; and hither hurled from the lowermost vaults of the lagoon.  All Mardi’s rocks are one wide resurrection.  But look.  Here, now, a pretty story’s told.  Ah, little thought these grand old lords, that lived and roared before the flood, that they would come to this.  Here, King Media, look and learn.”

He looked; and saw a picture petrified, and plain as any on the pediments of Petra.

It seemed a stately banquet of the dead, where lords in skeletons were ranged around a board heaped up with fossil fruits, and flanked with vitreous vases, grinning like empty skulls.  There they sat, exchanging rigid courtesies.  One’s hand was on his stony heart; his other pledged a lord who held a hollow beaker.  Another sat, with earnest face beneath a mitred brow.  He seemed to whisper in the ear of one who listened trustingly.  But on the chest of him who wore the miter, an adder lay, close-coiled in flint.

At the further end, was raised a throne, its canopy surmounted by a crown, in which now rested the likeness of a raven on an egg.

The throne was void.  But half-concealed by drapery, behind the goodliest lord, sideway leaned a figure diademed, a lifted poniard in its hand:—­a monarch fossilized in very act of murdering his guest.

“Most high and sacred majesty!” cried Babbalanja, bowing to his feet.

While all stood gazing on this sight, there came two servitors of Media’s, who besought of Babbalanja to settle a dispute, concerning certain tracings upon the islet’s other side.

Thither we followed them.

Upon a long layer of the slaty stone were marks of ripplings of some now waveless sea; mid which were tri-toed footprints of some huge heron, or wading fowl.

Pointing to one of which, the foremost disputant thus spoke:—­“I maintain that these are three toes.”

“And I, that it is one foot,” said the other.

“And now decide between us,” joined the twain.

Said Babbalanja, starting, “Is not this the very question concerning which they made such dire contention in Maramma, whose tertiary rocks are chisseled all over with these marks?  Yes; this it is, concerning which they once shed blood.  This it is, concerning which they still divide.”

“Which of us is right?” again demanded the impatient twain.

“Unite, and both are right; divide, and both are wrong.  Every unit is made up of parts, as well as every plurality.  Nine is three threes; a unit is as many thirds; or, if you please, a thousand thousandths; no special need to stop at thirds.”

“Away, ye foolish disputants!” cried Media.  “Full before you is the thing disputed.”

Strolling on, many marvels did we mark; and Media said:—­“Babbalanja, you love all mysteries; here’s a fitting theme.  You have given us the history of the rock; can your sapience tell the origin of all the isles? how Mardi came to be?”