But in Vivenza there were certain blusterers, who often thus prated:  “The Hump-back’s hour is come; at last the old teamster will be gored by the nations he’s yoked; his game is done,—­let him show his hand and throw up his scepter; he cumbers Mardi,—­let him be cut down and burned; he stands in the way of his betters,—­let him sheer to one side; he has shut up many eyes, and now himself grows blind; he hath committed horrible atrocities during his long career, the old sinner! —­now, let him quickly say his prayers and be beheaded.”

Howbeit, Bello lived on; enjoying his dinners, and taking his jorums as of yore.  Ah, I have yet a jolly long lease of life, thought he over his wine; and like unto some obstinate old uncle, he persisted in flourishing, in spite of the prognostications of the nephew nations, which at his demise, perhaps hoped to fall heir to odd parts of his possessions:  Three streaks of fat valleys to one of lean mountains!

CHAPTER XLIII They Land At Dominora

As erewhile recounted, not being on the best terms in Mardi with the King of Dominora, Media saw fit to draw nigh unto his dominions in haughty state; he (Media) being upon excellent terms with himself.  Our sails were set, our paddles paddling, streamers streaming, and Vee-Vee in the shark’s mouth, clamorous with his conch.  The din was soon heard; and sweeping into a fine broad bay we beheld its margin seemingly pebbled in the distance with heads; so populous the land.

Winding through a noble valley, we presently came to Bello’s palace, couchant and bristling in a grove.  The upright canes composing its front projected above the eaves in a long row of spear-heads fluttering with scarlet pennons; while below, from the intervals of the canes, were slantingly thrust three tiers of decorated lances.  A warlike aspect!  The entire structure looking like the broadside of the Macedonian phalanx, advancing to the charge, helmeted with a roof.

“Ah, Bello,” said Media, “thou dwellest among thy quills like the porcupine.”

“I feel a prickly heat coming over me,” cried Mohi, “my lord Media, let us enter.”

“Ay,” said Babbalanja, “safer the center of peril, than the circumference.”

Passing under an arch, formed by two pikes crossed, we found ourselves targets in prospective, for certain flingers of javelins, with poised weapons, occupying the angles of the palace.

Fronting us, stood a portly old warrior, spear in hand, hump on back, and fire in eye.

“Is it war?” he cried, pointing his pike, “or peace?” reversing it.

“Peace,” said Media.

Whereupon advancing, King Bello courteously welcomed us.

He was an arsenal to behold:  Upon his head the hereditary crown of Dominora,—­a helmet of the sea-porcupine’s hide, bristling all over with spikes, in front displaying a river-horse’s horn, leveled to the charge; thrust through his ears were barbed arrows; and from his dyed shark-skin girdle, depended a kilt of strung javelins.