“Philosopher, thou gainest but little by thy questions,” cried Yoomy advancing.  “Let a poet endeavor.”

“I abdicate in your favor, then, gentle Yoomy; let me smooth the divan for you;—­there:  be seated.”

“Now, Mohi, who art thou?” said Yoomy, nodding his bird-of-paradise plume.

“The sole witness, it seems, in this case.”

“Try again minstrel,” cried Babbalanja.

“Then, what art thou, Mohi?”

“Even what thou art, Yoomy.”

“He is too sharp or too blunt for us all,” cried King Media.  “His devil is even more subtle than yours, Babbalanja.  Let him go.”

“Shall I adjourn the court then, my lord?” said Babbalanja.

“Ay.”

“Oyez!  Oyez!  Oyez!  All mortals having business at this court, know ye, that it is adjourned till sundown of the day, which hath no to-morrow.”

CHAPTER XXXIII Wherein Babbalanja And Yoomy Embrace

“How the isles grow and multiply around us!” cried Babbalanja, as turning the bold promontory of an uninhabited shore, many distant lands bluely loomed into view.  “Surely, our brief voyage, may not embrace all Mardi like its reef?”

“No,” said Media, “much must be left unseen.  Nor every where can Yillah be sought, noble Taji.”

Said Yoomy, “We are as birds, with pinions clipped, that in unfathomable and endless woods, but flit from twig to twig of one poor tree.”

“More isles! more isles!” cried Babbalanja, erect, and gazing abroad.  “And lo! round all is heaving that infinite ocean.  Ah! gods! what regions lie beyond?”

“But whither now?” he cried, as in obedience to Media, the paddlers suddenly altered our course.

“To the bold shores of Diranda,” said Media.

“Ay; the land of clubs and javelins, where the lord seigniors Hello and Piko celebrate their famous games,” cried Mohi.

“Your clubs and javelins,” said Media, “remind me of the great battle-chant of Narvi—­Yoomy!”—­turning to the minstrel, gazing abstractedly into the water;—­“awake, Yoomy, and give us the lines.”

“My lord Media, ’tis but a rude, clanging thing; dissonant as if the north wind blew through it.  Methinks the company will not fancy lines so inharmonious.  Better sing you, perhaps, one of my sonnets.”

“Better sit and sob in our ears, silly Yoomy that thou art!—­no! no! none of your sentiment now; my soul is martially inclined; I want clarion peals, not lute warblings.  So throw out your chest, Yoomy:  lift high your voice; and blow me the old battle-blast.—­Begin, sir minstrel.”

And warning all, that he himself had not composed the odious chant, Yoomy thus:—­

    Our clubs! our clubs! 
    The thousand clubs of Narvi! 
    Of the living trunk of the Palm-tree made;
    Skull breakers!  Brain spatterers! 
    Wielded right, and wielded left;
    Life quenchers!  Death dealers! 
    Causing live bodies to run headless!