" said Babbalanja; "but, in these things, my lord,
you demi-gods are ever unanimous. But, whatever be Verdanna's demands,
Bello persists in rejecting them."

"Why not grant every thing she asks, even to renouncing all claim upon
the isle," said Mohi; "for thus, Bello would rid himself of many
perplexities."

"And think you, old man," said Media, "that, bane or blessing, Bello
will yield his birthright? Will a tri-crowned king resign his triple
diadem? And even did Bello what you propose he would only breed still
greater perplexities. For if granted, full soon would Verdanna be glad
to surrender many things she demands. And all she now asks, she has
had in times past; but without turning it to advantage:--and is she
wiser now?"

"Does she not demand her harvests, my lord?" said
Yoomy, "and has not the reaper a right to his sheaf?"

"Cant! cant! Yoomy. If you reap for me, the sheaf is mine."

"But if the reaper reaps on his own harvest-field, whose then the
sheaf, my lord?" said Babbalanja.

"His for whom he reaps--his lord's!"

"Then let the reaper go with sickle and with sword," said Yoomy, "with
one hand, cut down the bearded grain; and with the other, smite his
bearded lords."

"Thou growest fierce, in thy lyric moods, my warlike dove,"
said 'Media, blandly. "But for thee, philosopher, know thou, that
Verdanna's men are of blood and brain inferior to Bello's native race;
and the better Mardian must ever rule."

"Verdanna inferior to Dominora, my lord!--Has she produced no bards,
no orators, no wits, no patriots? Mohi, unroll thy chronicles! Tell
me, if Verdanna may not claim full many a star along King Bello's
tattooed arm of Fame?

"Even so," said Mohi. "Many chapters bear you out."

"But my lord," said Babbalanja, "as truth, omnipresent, lurks in all
things, even in lies: so, does some germ of it lurk in the calumnies
heaped on the people of this land. For though they justly boast of
many lustrous names, these jewels gem no splendid robe. And though
like a bower of grapes, Verdanna is full of gushing juices, spouting
out in bright sallies of wit, yet not all her grapes make wine; and
here and there, hang goodly clusters mildewed; or half devoured by
worms, bred in their own tendrils."

"Drop, drop your grapes and metaphors!" cried Media. "Bring forth your
thoughts like men; let them come naked into Mardi.--What do you mean,
Babbalanja?"

"This, my lord, Verdanna's worst evils are her own, not of a