naught. In my own isle of Odo--Odo!
Odo! How rules my viceroy there?--Down, down, ye madding mobs! Ho,
spearmen, charge! By the firmament, but my halberdiers fly!"

"His dream has changed," said Babbalanja. "He is in Odo, whither his
anxieties impel him."

"Hist, hist," said Yoomy.

"I leap upon the soil! Render thy account, Almanni! Where's my throne?
Mohi, am I not a king? Do not thy chronicles record me? Yoomy, am I
not the soul of some one glorious song? Babbalanja, speak.--Mohi! Yoomy!"

"What is it, my lord? thou dost but dream."

Staring wildly; then calmly gazing round, Media smiled. "Ha! how we
royalties ramble in our dreams! I've told no secrets?"

"While he seemed to sleep, my lord spoke much," said Mohi.

"I knew it not, old man; nor would now; but that ye tell me."

"We dream not ourselves," said Babbalanja, "but the thing within us."

"Ay?--good-morrow Azzageddi!--But come; no more dreams: Vee-Vee! wine."

And straight through that livelong night, immortal Media plied the can.

CHAPTER LXIX
After A Long Interval, By Night They Are Becalmed

Now suns rose, and set; moons grew, and waned; till, at last, the star
that erewhile heralded the dawn, presaged the eve; to us, sad token!--
while deep within the deepest heart of Mardi's circle, we sailed from
sea to sea; and isle to isle; and group to group;--vast empires
explored, and inland valleys, to their utmost heads; and for every ray
in heaven, beheld a king.

Needless to recount all that then befell; what tribes and caravans we
saw; what vast horizons; boundless plains: and sierras, in their every
intervale, a nation nestling.

Enough that still we roamed.

It was evening; and as the red sun, magnified, launched into the wave,
once more, from a wild strand, we launched our three canoes.

Soon, from her clouds, hooded Night, like a nun from a convent, drew
nigh. Rustled her train, yet no spangles were there. But high on her
brow, still shone her pale crescent; haloed by bandelets--violet, red,
and yellow. So looked the lone watcher through her rainbow-iris; so
sad, the night without stars.

The winds were laid; the lagoon, still, as a prairie of an August noon.

"Let us dream out the calm," said Media. "One of ye paddlers, watch:
Ho companions! who's for Cathay?"

Sleep reigned throughout the canoes, sleeping upon the waters. But
nearer and nearer, low-creeping along, came mists and vapors, a
thousand; spotted with twinklings of W