“I obey.  In kings, mollusca, and toad-stools, life is one thing and the same.  The Philosopher Dumdi pronounces it a certain febral vibration of organic parts, operating upon the vis inertia of unorganized matter.  But Bardianna says nay.  Hear him.  ’Who put together this marvelous mechanism of mine; and wound it up, to go for three score years and ten; when it runs out, and strikes Time’s hours no more?  And what is it, that daily and hourly renews, and by a miracle, creates in me my flesh and my blood?  What keeps up the perpetual telegraphic communication between my outpost toes and digits, and that domed grandee up aloft, my brain?—­It is not I; nor you; nor he; nor it.  No; when I place my hand to that king muscle my heart, I am appalled.  I feel the great God himself at work in me.  Oro is life.’”

“And what is death?” demanded Media.

“Death, my lord!—­it is the deadest of all things.”

CHAPTER LX
Wherein, That Gallant Gentleman And Demi-God, King Media, Scepter In
Hand, Throws Himself Into The Breach

Sailing south from Vivenza, not far from its coast, we passed a cluster of islets, green as new fledged grass; and like the mouths of floating cornucopias, their margins brimmed over upon the brine with flowers.  On some, grew stately roses; on others stood twin-pillars; across others, tri-hued rainbows rested.

Cried Babbalanja, pointing to the last, “Franko’s pledge of peace! with that, she loudly vaunts she’ll span the reef!—­Strike out all hues but red,—­and the token’s nearer truth.”

All these isles were prolific gardens; where King Bello, and the Princes of Porpheero grew their most delicious fruits,—­nectarines and grapes.

But, though hard by, Vivenza owned no garden here; yet longed and lusted; and her hottest tribes oft roundly swore, to root up all roses the half-reef over; pull down all pillars; and dissolve all rainbows.  “Mardi’s half is ours;” said they.  Stand back invaders!  Full of vanity; and mirroring themselves in the future; they deemed all reflected there, their own.

’Twas now high noon.

“Methinks the sun grows hot,” said Media, retreating deeper under the canopy.  “Ho!  Vee-Vee; have you no cooling beverage? none of that golden wine distilled from torrid grapes, and then sent northward to be cellared in an iceberg?  That wine was placed among our stores.  Search, search the crypt, little Vee-Vee!  Ha, I see it!—­that yellow gourd!—­Come:  drag it forth, my boy.  Let’s have the amber cups:  so:  pass them round;—­fill all!  Taji! my demi-god, up heart!  Old Mohi, my babe, may you live ten thousand centuries!  Ah! this way you mortals have of dying out at three score years and ten, is but a craven habit.  So, Babbalanja! may you never die.  Yoomy! my sweet poet, may you live to sing to me in Paradise.  Ha, ha! would that we floated in this glorious stuff, instead of this pestilent brine.—­Hark ye! were I to make a Mardi now, I’d have every continent a huge haunch of venison; every ocean a wine-vat!  I’d stock every cavern with choice old spirits, and make three surplus suns to ripen the grapes all the year round.  Let’s drink to that!—­Brimmers!  So:  may the next Mardi that’s made, be one entire grape; and mine the squeezing!”