I see his thoughts like worlds revolving—­and in his eyes—­like unto heavens—­soft falling stars are shooting.—­How these thousand passing wings winnow away my breath:—­I faint:—­back, back to some small asteroid.—­Sweet being! if, by Mardian word I may address thee—­ speak!—­’I bear a soul in germ within me; I feel the first, faint trembling, like to a harp-string, vibrate in my inmost being.  Kill me, and generations die.’—­So, of old, the unbegotten lived within the virgin; who then loved her God, as new-made mothers their babes ere born.  Oh, Alma, Alma, Alma!—­Fangs off, fiend!—­will that name ever lash thee into foam?—­Smite not my face so, forked flames!”

“Babbalanja!  Babbalanja! rouse, man! rouse!  Art in hell and damned, that thy sinews so snake-like coil and twist all over thee?  Thy brow is black as Ops!  Turn, turn! see yonder moose!”

“Hail! mighty brute!—­thou feelest not these things:  never canst thou be damned.  Moose! would thy soul were mine; for if that scorched thing, mine, be immortal—­so thine; and thy life hath not the consciousness of death.  I read profound placidity—­deep—­million—­ violet fathoms down, in that soft, pathetic, woman eye!  What is man’s shrunk form to thine, thou woodland majesty?—­Moose, moose!—­my soul is shot again—­Oh, Oro!  Oro!”

“He falls!” cried Media.

“Mark the agony in his waning eye,” said Yoomy;—­“alas, poor Babbalanja!  Is this thing of madness conscious to thyself?  If ever thou art sane again, wilt thou have reminiscences?  Take my robe:—­ here, I strip me to cover thee and all thy woes.  Oro! by this, thy being’s side, I kneel:—­grant death or happiness to Babbalanja!”

CHAPTER LXXXI 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: