“Oh curse of commerce!” cried Babbalanja, “that it barters souls for gold. Bello! with opium, thou wouldst drug this land, and murder it in sleep!—And what boot thy conquests here? Seed sown by spears but seldom springs; and harvests reaped thereby, are poisoned by the sickle’s edge.” Yet on, and on we coasted; counting not the days. “Oh, folds and flocks of nations! dusky tribes innumerable!” cried Yoomy, “camped on plains and steppes; on thousand mountains, worshiping the stars; in thousand valleys, offering up first-fruits, till all the forests seem in flames;—where, in fire, the widow’s spirit mounts to meet her lord!—Oh, Orienda, in thee ’tis vain to seek our Yillah!” “How dark as death the night!” said Mohi, shaking the dew from his braids, “the Heavens blaze not here with stars, as over Dominora’s land, and broad Vivenza.” One only constellation was beheld; but every star was brilliant as the one, that promises the morning. That constellation was the Crux- Australis,—the badge, and type of Alma. And now, southwest we steered, till another island vast, was reached; —Hamora! far trending toward the Antarctic Pole. Coasting on by barbarous beaches, where painted men, with spears, charged on all attempts to land, at length we rounded a mighty bluff, lit by a beacon; and heard a bugle call:—Bello’s! hurrying to their quarters, the World-End’s garrison. Here, the sea rolled high, in mountain surges: mid which, we toiled and strained, as if ascending cliffs of Caucasus. But not long thus. As when from howling Rhoetian heights, the traveler spies green Lombardy below, and downward rushes toward that pleasant plain; so, sloping from long rolling swells, at last we launched upon the calm lagoon. But as we northward sailed, once more the storm-trump blew, and charger-like, the seas ran mustering to the call; and in battalions crouched before a towering rock, far distant from the main. No moon, eclipsed in Egypt’s skies, looked half so lone. But from out that darkness, on the loftiest peak, Bello’s standard waved. “Oh rifled tomb!” cried Babbalanja. “Wherein lay the Mars and Moloch of our times, whose constellated crown, was gemmed with diadems. Thou god of war! who didst seem the devouring Beast of the Apocalypse; casting so vast a shadow over Mardi, that yet it lingers in old Franko’s vale; where still they start at thy tremendous ghost; and, late, have hailed a phantom, King! Almighty hero-spell! that after the lapse of half a century, can so bewitch all hearts! But one drop of hero-blood will deify a fool.