Much we marked Abrazza’s jeweled crown; that shot no honest blaze of ruddy rubies; nor looked stern-white like Media’s pearls; but cast a green and yellow glare; rays from emeralds, crossing rays from many a topaz.  In those beams, so sinister, all present looked cadaverous:  Abrazza’s cheek alone beamed bright, but hectic.

Upon its fragrant mats a spacious hall received the kings; and gathering courtiers blandly bowed; and gushing with soft flatteries, breathed idol-incense round them.

The hall was terraced thrice; its elevated end was curtained; and thence, at every chime of words, there burst a girl, gay scarfed, with naked bosom, and poured forth wild and hollow laughter, as she raced down all the terraces, and passed their merry kingships.

Wide round the hall, in avenues, waved almond-woods; their whiteness frosted into bloom.  But every vine-clad trunk was hollow-hearted; hollow sounds came from the grottos:  hollow broke the billows on the shore:  and hollow pauses filled the air, following the hollow laughter.

Guards, with spears, paced the groves, and in the inner shadows, oft were seen to lift their weapons, and backward press some ugly phantom, saying, “Subjects! haunt him not; Abrazza would be merry; Abrazza feasts his guests.”

So, banished from our sight seemed all things uncongenial; and pleasant times were ours, in these dominions.  Not a face passed by, but smiled; mocking-birds perched on the boughs; and singing, made us vow the woods were warbling forth thanksgiving, with a thousand throats!  The stalwart yeomen grinned beneath their trenchers, heaped with citrons pomegrantes, grapes; the pages tittered, pouring out the wine; and all the lords loud laughed, smote their gilded spears, and swore the isle was glad.

Such the isle, in which we tarried; but in our rambles, found no Yillah.

CHAPTER LXXVI
Some Pleasant, Shady Talk In The Groves, Between My Lords Abrazza And
Media, Babbalanja, Mohi, And Yoomy

Abrazza had a cool retreat—­a grove of dates; where we were used to lounge of noons, and mix our converse with the babble of the rills; and mix our punches in goblets chased with grapes.  And as ever, King Abrazza was the prince of hosts.

“Your crown,” he said to Media; and with his own, he hung it on a bough.

“Be not ceremonious:”  and stretched his royal legs upon the turf.

“Wine!” and his pages poured it out.

So on the grass we lounged; and King Abrazza, who loved his antique ancestors; and loved old times; and would not talk of moderns;—­bade Yoomy sing old songs; bade Mohi rehearse old histories; bade Babbalanja tell of old ontologies; and commanded all, meanwhile, to drink his old, old wine.

So, all round we quaffed and quoted.

At last, we talked of old Homeric bards:—­those who, ages back, harped, and begged, and groped their blinded way through all this charitable Mardi; receiving coppers then, and immortal glory now.