Chapter 60

Wherein, That Gallant Gentleman And Demi-God, King Media, Scepter In
Hand, Throws Himself Into The Breach

Sailing south from Vivenza, not far from its coast, we passed a
cluster of islets, green as new fledged grass; and like the mouths of
floating cornucopias, their margins brimmed over upon the brine with
flowers. On some, grew stately roses; on others stood twin-pillars;
across others, tri-hued rainbows rested.

Cried Babbalanja, pointing to the last, "Franko's pledge of peace!
with that, she loudly vaunts she'll span the reef!--Strike out all
hues but red,--and the token's nearer truth."

All these isles were prolific gardens; where King Bello, and the
Princes of Porpheero grew their most delicious fruits,--nectarines and
grapes.

But, though hard by, Vivenza owned no garden here; yet longed and
lusted; and her hottest tribes oft roundly swore, to root up all roses
the half-reef over; pull down all pillars; and dissolve all rainbows.
"Mardi's half is ours;" said they. Stand back invaders! Full of
vanity; and mirroring themselves in the future; they deemed all
reflected there, their own.

'Twas now high noon.

"Methinks the sun grows hot," said Media, retreating deeper under the
canopy. "Ho! Vee-Vee; have you no cooling beverage? none of that
golden wine distilled from torrid grapes, and then sent northward to
be cellared in an iceberg? That wine was placed among our
stores. Search, search the crypt, little Vee-Vee! Ha, I see it!--that
yellow gourd!--Come: drag it forth, my boy. Let's have the amber cups:
so: pass them round;--fill all! Taji! my demi-god, up heart! Old Mohi,
my babe, may you live ten thousand centuries! Ah! this way you mortals
have of dying out at three score years and ten, is but a craven habit.
So, Babbalanja! may you never die. Yoomy! my sweet poet, may you live
to sing to me in Paradise. Ha, ha! would that we floated in this
glorious stuff, instead of this pestilent brine.--Hark ye! were I to
make a Mardi now, I'd have every continent a huge haunch of venison;
every ocean a wine-vat! I'd stock every cavern with choice old
spirits, and make three surplus suns to ripen the grapes all the year
round. Let's drink to that!--Brimmers! So: may the next Mardi that's
made, be one entire grape; and mine the squeezing!"

"Look, look! my lord," cried Yoomy, "what a glorious shore we pass."

Sallying out into the high golden noon, with golden-beaming goblets
suspended, we gazed.

"This must be Kolumbo of the south," said Mohi.

It was a long, hazy reach of land; piled up in terraces, traced here
and there with rushing streams, that worked up gold dust alluvian, and
seemed