Said Mohi, “Their souls ascended, ere their bodies touched.”

This tragical event took place many generations gone by, and now a dizzy, devious way conducts one, firm of foot, from the verge to the plain.  But none ever ascended.  So perilous, indeed, is the descent itself, that the islanders venture not the feat, without invoking supernatural aid.  Flanking the precipice beneath beetling rocks, stand the guardian deities of Mondo; and on altars before them, are placed the propitiatory offerings of the traveler.

To the right of the brink of the precipice, and far over it, projects a narrow ledge.  The test of legitimacy in the Ohonoo monarchs is to stand hereon, arms folded, and javelins darting by.

And there in his youth Uhia stood.

“How felt you, cousin?” asked Media.

“Like the King of Ohonoo,” he replied.  “As I shall again feel; when King of all Mardi.”

CHAPTER XCIII
Babbalanja Steps In Between Mohi And Yoomy; And Yoomy Relates A
Legend

Embarking from Ohonoo, we at length found ourselves gliding by the pleasant shores of Tupia, an islet which according to Braid-Beard had for ages remained uninhabited by man.  Much curiosity being expressed to know more of the isle, Mohi was about to turn over his chronicles, when, with modesty, the minstrel Yoomy interposed; saying, that if my Lord Media permitted, he himself would relate the legend.  From its nature, deeming the same pertaining to his province as poet; though, as yet, it had not been versified.  But he added, that true pearl shells rang musically, though not strung upon a cord.

Upon this presumptuous interference, Mohi looked highly offended; and nervously twitching his beard, uttered something invidious about frippery young poetasters being too full of silly imaginings to tell a plain tale.

Said Yoomy, in reply, adjusting his turban, “Old Mohi, let us not clash.  I honor your calling; but, with submission, your chronicles are more wild than my cantos.  I deal in pure conceits of my own; which have a shapeliness and a unity, however unsubstantial; but you, Braid-Beard, deal in mangled realities.  In all your chapters, you yourself grope in the dark.  Much truth is not in thee, historian.  Besides, Mohi:  my songs perpetuate many things which you sage scribes entirely overlook.  Have you not oftentimes come to me, and my ever dewy ballads for information, in which you and your musty old chronicles were deficient?”

“In much that is precious, Mohi, we poets are the true historians; we embalm; you corrode.”

To this Mohi, with some ire, was about to make answer, when, flinging over his shoulder a new fold of his mantle, Babbalanja spoke thus:  “Peace, rivals.  As Bardianna has it, like all who dispute upon pretensions of their own, you are each nearest the right, when you speak of the other; and furthest therefrom, when you speak of yourselves.”