skulls in their hands. And still "Heads," was the
cry, and "Heads," was the throw.

That evening they made known to my lord Media that an interval of two
days must elapse ere the games were renewed, in order to reward the
victors, bury their dead, and provide for the execution of an
Islander, who under the pro-vocation of a blow, had killed a stranger.

As this suspension of the festivities had been wholly unforeseen, our
hosts were induced to withdraw the embargo laid upon our canoes.
Nevertheless, they pressed us to remain; saying, that what was to come
would far exceed in interest, what had already taken place. The games
in prospect being of a naval description, embracing certain hand-to-
hand contests in the water between shoals of web-footed warriors.

However, we decided to embark on the morrow.

It was in the cool of the early morning, at that hour when a man's
face can be known, that we set sail from Diranda; and in the ghostly
twilight, our thoughts reverted to the phantom that so suddenly had
cleared the plain. With interest we hearkened to the recitals of Mohi;
who discoursing of the sad end of many brave chieftains in Mardi, made
allusion to the youthful Adondo, one of the most famous of the chiefs
of the chronicles. In a canoe-fight, after performing prodigies of
valor; he was wounded in the head, and sunk to the bottom of the lagoon.

"There is a noble monody upon the death of Adondo," said Yoomy. "Shall
I sing it, my lord? It. is very beautiful; nor could I ever repeat it
without a tear."

"We will dispense with your tears, minstrel," said Media, "but sing
it, if you will."

And Yoomy sang:--

Departed the pride and the glory of Mardi:
The vaunt of her isles sleeps deep in the sea,
That rolls o'er his corpse with a hush.
His warriors bend over their spears,
His sisters gaze upward and mourn.
Weep, weep, for Adondo, is dead!
The sun has gone down in a shower;
Buried in clouds in the face of the moon;
Tears stand in the eyes of the starry skies,
And stand in the eyes of the flowers;
And streams of tears are the trickling brooks,
Coursing adown the mountains.--
Departed the pride, and the glory of Mardi:
The vaunt of her isles sleeps deep in the sea.
Fast falls the small rain on its bosom that sobs.--
Not showers of rain, but the tears of Oro.

"A dismal time it must have been," yawned Media, "not a dry brook