and
whirling, chase the flying Malay keels; so, before a swift-winged
cloud, a thousand prows sped by, leaving braided, foaming wakes; their
crowded inmates' arms, in frenzied supplications wreathed; like
tangled forest-boughs.

"See, see," cried Yoomy, "how the Death-cloud flies! Let us dive down
in the sea."

"Nay," said Babbalanja. "All things come of Oro; if we must drown, let
Oro drown us."

"Down sails: drop paddles," said Media: "here we float."

Like a rushing bison, sweeping by, the Death-cloud grazed us with its
foam; and whirling in upon the thousand prows beyond, sudden burst in
deluges; and scooping out a maelstrom, dragged down every plank and soul.

Long we rocked upon the circling billows, which expanding from that
center, dashed every isle, till, moons after-ward, faint, they laved
all Mardi's reef.

"Thanks unto Oro," murmured Mohi, "this heart still beats."

That sun-flushed eve, we sailed by many tranquil harbors, whence fled
those thousand prows. Serene, the waves ran up their strands; and
chimed around the unharmed stakes of palm, to which the thousand prows
that morning had been fastened.

"Flying death, they ran to meet it," said Babbalanja. "But 'tie not
that they fled, they died; for maelstroms, of these harbors, the
Death-cloud might have made. But they died, because they might not
longer live. Could we gain one glimpse of the great calendar of
eternity, all our names would there be found, glued against their
dates of death. We die by land, and die by sea; we die by earthquakes,
famines, plagues, and wars; by fevers, agues; woe, or mirth excessive.
This mortal air is one wide pestilence, that kills us all at last.
Whom the Death-cloud spares, sleeping, dies in silent watches of the
night. He whom the spears of many battles could not slay, dies of a
grape-stone, beneath the vine-clad bower he built, to shade declining
years. We die, because we live. But none the less does Babbalanja
quake. And if he flies not, 'tis because he stands the center of a
circle; its every point a leveled dart; and every bow, bent back:--a
twang, and Babbalanja dies."

CHAPTER LXXV
They Visit The Palmy King Abrazza

Night and morn departed; and in the afternoon, we drew nigh to an
island, overcast with shadows; a shower was falling; and pining,
plaintive notes forth issued from the groves: half-suppressed, and
sobbing whisperings of leaves. The shore sloped to the water; thither
our prows were po