“And this is freedom!” murmured Media; “when heaven’s own voice is throttled.  And were these serfs to rise, and fight for it; like dogs, they would be hunted down by her pretended sons!”

“Pray, heaven!” cried Yoomy, “they may yet find a way to loose their bonds without one drop of blood.  But hear me, Oro! were there no other way, and should their masters not relent, all honest hearts must cheer this tribe of Hamo on; though they cut their chains with blades thrice edged, and gory to the haft!  ’Tis right to fight for freedom, whoever be the thrall.”

“These South savannahs may yet prove battle-fields,” said Mohi; gloomily, as we retraced our steps.

“Be it,” said Yoomy.  “Oro will van the right.”

“Not always has it proved so,” said Babbalanja.  “Oft-times, the right fights single-handed against the world; and Oro champions none.  In all things, man’s own battles, man himself must fight.  Yoomy:  so far as feeling goes, your sympathies are not more hot than mine; but for these serfs you would cross spears; yet, I would not.  Better present woes for some, than future woes for all.”

“No need to fight,” cried Yoomy, “to liberate that tribe of Hamo instantly; a way may be found, and no irretrievable evil ensue.”

“Point it out, and be blessed, Yoomy.”

“That is for Vivenza; but the head is dull, where the heart is cold.”

“My lord,” said Babbalanja, “you have startled us by your kingly sympathy for suffering; say thou, then, in what wise manner it shall be relieved.”

“That is for Vivenza,” said Media.

“Mohi, you are old:  speak thou.”

“Let Vivenza speak,” said Mohi.

“Thus then we all agree; and weeping all but echo hard-hearted Nulli.  Tears are not swords and wrongs seem almost natural as rights.  For the righteous to suppress an evil, is sometimes harder than for others to uphold it.  Humanity cries out against this vast enormity:—­ not one man knows a prudent remedy.  Blame not, then, the North; and wisely judge the South.  Ere, as a nation, they became responsible, this thing was planted in their midst.  Such roots strike deep.  Place to-day those serfs in Dominora; and with them, all Vivenza’s Past;—­ and serfs, for many years, in Dominora, they would be.  Easy is it to stand afar and rail.  All men are censors who have lungs.  We can say, the stars are wrongly marshaled.  Blind men say the sun is blind.  A thousand muscles wag our tongues; though our tongues were housed, that they might have a home.  Whose is free from crime, let him cross himself—­but hold his cross upon his lips.  That he is not bad, is not of him.  Potters’ clay and wax are all, molded by hands invisible.  The soil decides the man.  And, ere birth, man wills not to be born here or there.  These southern tribes have grown up with this thing; bond-women were their nurses, and bondmen serve them still.  Nor are all their serfs such wretches as those we saw.  Some seem