Chapter 81

L'ultima Sera

Thus far, through myriad islands, had we searched: of all, no one pen
may write: least, mine;--and still no trace of Yillah.

But though my hopes revived not from their ashes; yet, so much of
Mardi had we searched, it seemed as if the long pursuit must, ere many
moons, be ended; whether for weal or woe, my frenzy sometimes reeked not.

After its first fair morning flushings, all that day was overcast. We
sailed upon an angry sea, beneath an angry sky. Deep scowled on deep;
and in dun vapors, the blinded sun went down, unseen; though full
toward the West our three prows were pointed; steadfast as three
printed points upon the compass-card.

"When we set sail from Odo, 'twas a glorious morn in spring," said
Yoomy; "toward the rising sun we steered. But now, beneath autumnal
night-clouds, we hasten to its setting."

"How now?" cried Media; "why is the minstrel mournful?--He whose place
it is to chase away despondency: not be its minister."

"Ah, my lord, so _thou_ thinkest. But better can my verses soothe the
sad, than make them light of heart. Nor are we minstrels so gay of
soul as Mardi deems us. The brook that sings the sweetest, murmurs
through the loneliest woods:

The isles hold thee not, thou departed!
From thy bower, now issues no lay:--
In vain we recall perished warblings:
Spring birds, to far climes, wing their way!"

As Yoomy thus sang; unmindful of the lay, with paddle plying, in low,
pleasant tones, thus hummed to himself our bowsman, a gamesome wight:--

Ho! merrily ho! we paddlers sail!
Ho! over sea-dingle, and dale!--
Our pulses fly,
Our hearts beat high,
Ho! merrily, merrily, ho!

But a sudden splash, and a shrill, gurgling sound, like that of a
fountain subsiding, now broke upon the air. Then all was still, save
the rush of the waves by our keels.

"Save him! Put back!"

From his elevated seat, the merry bowsman, too gleefully reaching
forward, had fallen into the lagoon.

With all haste, our speeding canoes were reversed; but not till we had
darted in upon another darkness than that in which the bowsman fell.

As, blindly, we groped back, deep Night dived deeper down in the sea.

"Drop paddles all, and list."

Holding their breath, over the six gunwales all now leaned; but the
only moans were the wind's.

Long time we lay thus; then slowly crossed and recrossed our track,
almost hopeless; but yet loth to leave him who, with a song in his
mouth, died and was buried in a breath.

"Let us away," said Media--"why seek more? He is gone."

"Ay, gone," said Babbalanja,