“Gibberish, your Highness? Gibberish? I’m full of it—I’m a gibbering ghost, my right worshipful lord! Here, pass your hand through me— here, _here_, and scorch it where I most burn. By Oro! King! but I will gibe and gibber at thee, till thy crown feels like another skull clapped on thy own. Gibberish? ay, in hell we’ll gibber in concert, king! we’ll howl, and roast, and hiss together!” “Devil that thou art, begone! Ho, guards! seize him!” “Back, curs!” cried Media. “Harm not a hair of his head. I crave pardon, King Abrazza, but no violence must be done Babbalanja.” “Trumpets there!” said Abrazza; “so: the banquet is done—lights for King Media! Good-night, my lord!” Now, thus, for the nonce, with good cheer, we close. And after many fine dinners and banquets—through light and through shade; through mirth, sorrow, and all—drawing nigh to the evening end of these wanderings wild—meet is it that all should be regaled with a supper. CHAPTER LXXVIII. They Embark Next morning, King Abrazza sent frigid word to Media that the day was very fine for yachting; but he much regretted that indisposition would prevent his making one of the party, who that morning doubtless would depart his isle. “My compliments to your king,” said Media to the chamberlains, “and say the royal notice to quit was duly received.” “Take Azzageddi’s also,” said Babbalanja; “and say, I hope his Highness will not fail in his appointment with me:—the first midnight after he dies; at the grave-yard corner;—there I’ll be, and grin again!” Sailing on, the next land we saw was thickly wooded: hedged round about by mangrove trees; which growing in the water, yet lifted high their boughs. Here and there were shady nooks, half verdure and half water. Fishes rippled, and canaries sung. “Let us break through, my lord,” said Yoomy, “and seek the shore. Its solitudes must prove reviving.” “Solitudes they are,” cried Mohi. “Peopled but not enlivened,” said Babbalanja. “Hard landing here, minstrel! see you not the isle is hedged?” “Why, break through, then,” said Media. “Yillah is not here.” “I mistrusted it,” sighed Yoomy; “an imprisoned island! full of uncomplaining woes: like many others we must have glided by, unheedingly. Yet of them have I heard. This isle many pass, marking its outward brightness, but dreaming not of the sad secrets here embowered. Haunt of the hopeless! In those inland woods brood Mardians who have tasted Mardi, and found it bitter—the draught so sweet to others!—maidens whose unimparted bloom has cankered in the bud; and children, with eyes averted from life’s dawn—like those new-oped morning blossoms which, foreseeing storms, turn and close.” “Yoomy’s rendering of the truth,” said Mohi. “Why land, then?” said Media. “No merry man of sense—no demi-god like me, will do it. Let’s away; let’s see all that’s pleasant, or that seems so, in our circuit, and, if possible, shun the sad.”