“That will do, Babbalanja; you are on the verge, take not the leap! Go back whence you set out, and tell us of that other, and still more mysterious Azzageddi; him whom you hinted to have palmed himself off on you for you yourself.” “Well, then, my lord,—Azzageddi still set aside,—upon that self-same inscrutable stranger, I charge all those past actions of mine, which in the retrospect appear to me such eminent folly, that I am confident, it was not I, Babbalanja, now speaking, that committed them. Nevertheless, my lord, this very day I may do some act, which at a future period may seem equally senseless; for in one lifetime we live a hundred lives. By the incomprehensible stranger in me, I say, this body of mine has been rented out scores of times, though always one dark chamber in me is retained by the old mystery.” “Will you never come to the mark, Babbalanja? Tell me something direct of the stranger. Who, what is he? Introduce him.” “My lord, I can not. He is locked up in me. In a mask, he dodges me. He prowls about in me, hither and thither; he peers, and I stare. This is he who talks in my sleep, revealing my secrets; and takes me to unheard of realms, beyond the skies of Mardi. So present is he always, that I seem not so much to live of myself, as to be a mere apprehension of the unaccountable being that is in me. Yet all the time, this being is I, myself.” “Babbalanja,” said Media, “you have fairly turned yourself inside out.” “Yes, my lord,” said Mohi, “and he has so unsettled me, that I begin to think all Mardi a square circle.” “How is that, Babbalanja,” said Media, “is a circle square?” “No, my lord, but ever since Mardi began, we Mardians have been essaying our best to square it.” “Cleverly retorted. Now, Babbalanja, do you not imagine, that you may do harm by disseminating these sophisms of yours; which like your devil theory, would seem to relieve all Mardi from moral accountability?” “My lord, at bottom, men wear no bonds that other men can strike off; and have no immunities, of which other men can deprive them. Tell a good man that he is free to commit murder,—will he murder? Tell a murderer that at the peril of his soul he indulges in murderous thoughts,—will that make him a saint?” “Again on the verge, Babbalanja? Take not the leap, I say.” “I can leap no more, my lord. Already I am down, down, down.” “Philosopher,” said Media, “what with Azzageddi, and the mysterious indweller you darkly hint of, I marvel not that you are puzzled to decide upon your identity. But when do you seem most yourself?” “When I sleep, and dream not, my lord.” “Indeed?” “Why then, a fool’s cap might be put on you, and you would not know it.” “The very turban he ought to wear,” muttered Mohi.