ind fools,
you, you contradict yourselves,' continued the first speaker, waxing
wroth; 'how can you each have hold of a separate trunk, when there is
but one in the place?' Whereupon, they redoubled their cries, calling
each other all manner of opprobrious names, and presently they fell to
beating each other with their staves, and charging upon each other
with their noses. But soon after, being loudly called upon by Tammaro
and his people; who all this while had been looking on; being loudly
called upon, I say, to clap their hands on the trunk, they again
rushed for their respective branches; and it so happened, that, one
and all, they changed places; but still cried out, '_Here_ it is;
_here_ it is!' 'Peace! peace! ye silly blind men,' said Tammaro. 'Will
ye without eyes presume to see more sharply than those who have them?
The tree is too much for us all. Hence! depart from the valley.'"

"An admirable story," cried Media. "I had no idea that a mere mortal,
least of all a philosopher, could acquit him-self so well. By my
scepter, but it is well done! Ha, ha! blind men round a banian! Why,
Babbalanja, no demi-god could surpass it. Taji, could you?"

"But, Babbalanja, what under the sun, mean you by your blind story!"
cried Mohi. "Obverse, or reverse, I can make nothing out of it."

"Others may," said Babbalanja. "It is a polysensuum, old man."

"A pollywog!" said Mohi.

CHAPTER XII
Landing To Visit Hivohitee The Pontiff, They Encounter An
Extraordinary Old Hermit; With Whom Yoomy Has A Confidential
Interview, But Learns Little

Gliding on, suddenly we spied a solitary Islander putting out in his
canoe from a neighboring cove.

Drawing near, the stranger informed us, that he was just from the face
of the great Pontiff, Hivohitee, who, having dismissed his celestial
guests, had retired to his private sanctuary. Upon this, Media
resolved to land forthwith, and under the guidance of Mohi, proceed
inland, and pay a visit to his Holiness.

Quitting the beach, our path penetrated into the solitudes of the
groves. Skirting the way were tall Casaurinas, a species of cypress,
standing motionless in the shadows, as files of mutes at a funeral.
But here and there, they were overrun with the adventurous vines of
the Convolvulus, the Morning-glory of the Tropics, whose tendrils,
bruised by the twigs, dropped milk upon the dragon-like scales of the
trees.

This vine is of many varieties. Lying perdu, and shunning th