not the
consciousness of death. I read profound placidity--deep--million--
violet fathoms down, in that soft, pathetic, woman eye! What is man's
shrunk form to thine, thou woodland majesty?--Moose, moose!--my soul
is shot again--Oh, Oro! Oro!"

"He falls!" cried Media.

"Mark the agony in his waning eye," said Yoomy;--"alas, poor
Babbalanja! Is this thing of madness conscious to thyself? If ever
thou art sane again, wilt thou have reminiscences? Take my robe:--
here, I strip me to cover thee and all thy woes. Oro! by this, thy
being's side, I kneel:--grant death or happiness to Babbalanja!"

CHAPTER LXXXI
L'ultima Sera

Thus far, through myriad islands, had we searched: of all, no one pen
may write: least, mine;--and still no trace of Yillah.

But though my hopes revived not from their ashes; yet, so much of
Mardi had we searched, it seemed as if the long pursuit must, ere many
moons, be ended; whether for weal or woe, my frenzy sometimes reeked not.

After its first fair morning flushings, all that day was overcast. We
sailed upon an angry sea, beneath an angry sky. Deep scowled on deep;
and in dun vapors, the blinded sun went down, unseen; though full
toward the West our three prows were pointed; steadfast as three
printed points upon the compass-card.

"When we set sail from Odo, 'twas a glorious morn in spring," said
Yoomy; "toward the rising sun we steered. But now, beneath autumnal
night-clouds, we hasten to its setting."

"How now?" cried Media; "why is the minstrel mournful?--He whose place
it is to chase away despondency: not be its minister."

"Ah, my lord, so _thou_ thinkest. But better can my verses soothe the
sad, than make them light of heart. Nor are we minstrels so gay of
soul as Mardi deems us. The brook that sings the sweetest, murmurs
through the loneliest woods:

The isles hold thee not, thou departed!
From thy bower, now issues no lay:--
In vain we recall perished warblings:
Spring birds, to far climes, wing their way!"

As Yoomy thus sang; unmindful of the lay, with paddle plying, in low,
pleasant tones, thus hummed to himself our bowsman, a gamesome wight:--

Ho! merrily ho! we paddlers sail!
Ho! over sea-dingle, and dale!--
Our pulses fly,
Our hearts beat high,
Ho! merrily, merrily, ho!

But a sudden splash, and a shrill, gurgling sound, like that of a
fountain subsiding, now broke upon the air. Then all was still, save
th