riests. "But a resurrection of
bones, after all," said Babbalanja, ever osseous in his allusions to
the departed.

Passing on, we came to a number of Runic-looking stones, all over
hieroglyphical inscriptions, and placed round an elliptical aperture;
where welled up the sacred spring of the Morai, clear as crystal, and
showing through its waters, two tiers of sharp, tusk-like stones; the
mouth of Oro, so called; and it was held, that if any secular hand
should be immersed in the spring, straight upon it those stony jaws
would close.

We next came to a large image of a dark-hued stone, representing a
burly man, with an overgrown head, and abdomen hollowed out, and open
for inspection; therein, were relics of bones. Before this image we
paused. And whether or no it was Mohi's purpose to make us tourists
quake with his recitals, his revelations were far from agreeable. At
certain seasons, human beings were offered to the idol, which being an
epicure in the matter of sacrifices, would accept of no ordinary fare.
To insure his digestion, all indirect routes to the interior were
avoided; the sacrifices being packed in the ventricle itself.

Near to this image of Doleema, so called, a solitary forest-tree was
pointed out; leafless and dead to the core. But from its boughs hang
numerous baskets, brimming over with melons, grapes, and guavas. And
daily these baskets were replenished.

As we here stood, there passed a hungry figure, in ragged raiment:
hollow cheeks, and hollow eyes. Wistfully he eyed the offerings; but
retreated; knowing it was sacrilege to touch them. There, they must
decay, in honor of the god Ananna; for so this dead tree was
denominated by Mohi.

Now, as we were thus strolling about the Morai, the old chronicler
elucidating its mysteries, we suddenly spied Pani and the pilgrims
approaching the image of Doleema; his child leading the guide.

"This," began Pani, pointing to the idol of stone, "is the holy god
Ananna who lives in the sap of this green and flourishing tree."

"Thou meanest not, surely, this stone image we behold?" said Divino.

"I mean the tree," said the guide. "It is no stone image."

"Strange," muttered the chief; "were it not a guide that spoke, I
would deny it. As it is, I hold my peace."

"Mystery of mysteries!" cried the blind old pilgrim; "is it, then, a
stone image that Pani calls a tree? Oh, Oro, that I had eyes to see,
that I might verily behold it, and then believe it to b