Chapter 60 - Page 2

to flash over pebbled diamonds. Heliotropes, sun-flowers,
marigolds gemmed, or starred the violet meads, and vassal-like, still
sunward bowed their heads. The rocks were pierced with grottoes,
blazing with crystals, many-tinted.

It was a land of mints and mines; its east a ruby; west a topaz.
Inland, the woodlands stretched an ocean, bottomless with foliage; its
green surges bursting through cable-vines; like Xerxes' brittle chains
which vainly sought to bind the Hellespont. Hence flowed a tide of
forest sounds; of parrots, paroquets, macaws; blent with the howl of
jaguars, hissing of anacondas, chattering of apes, and herons
screaming.

Out from those depths up rose a stream.

The land lay basking in the world's round torrid brisket, hot with
solar fire.

"No need here to land," cried Yoomy, "Yillah lurks not here."

"Heat breeds life, and sloth, and rage," said Babbalanja. "Here live
bastard tribes and mongrel nations; wrangling and murdering to prove
their freedom.--Refill, my lord."

"Methinks, Babbalanja, you savor of the mysterious parchment, in
Vivenza read:--Ha? Yes, philosopher, these are the men, who toppled
castles to make way for hovels; these, they who fought for freedom,
but find it despotism to rule themselves. These, Babbalanja, are of
the race, to whom a tyrant would prove a blessing." So saying he
drained his cup.

"My lord, that last sentiment decides the authorship of the scroll.
But, with deference, tyrants seldom can prove blessings; inasmuch as
evil seldom eventuates in good. Yet will these people soon have a
tyrant over them, if long they cleave to war. Of many javelins, one
must prove a scepter; of many helmets, one a crown. It is but in the
wearing.--Refill, my lord."

"Fools, fools!" cried Media, "these tribes hate us kings; yet know
not, that Peace is War against all kings. We seldom are undone by
spears, which are our ministers.--This wine is strong."

"Ha, now's the time! In his cups learn king-craft from a king. Ay, ay,
my lord, your royal order will endure, so long as men will fight.
Break the spears, and free the nations. Kings reap the harvests that
wave on battle-fields. And oft you kings do snatch the aloe-flower,
whose slow blossoming mankind watches for a hundred years.--Say on, my
lord."

"All this I know; and, therefore, rest content. My children's children
will be kings; though, haply, called by other titles. Mardi grows
fastidious in names: we royalties will humor it. The steers
would burst their yokes, but have not hands. The whole herd rears and
plunges, but soon will bow again: the old, old way!"