ying--grave pile on grave!
Here, one haggard hunter murders another in his pit; and murdering,
himself is murdered by a third. Shrieks and groans! cries and curses!
It seems a golden Hell! With many camels, a sleek stranger comes--
pauses before the shining heaps, and shows _his_ treasures: yams and
bread-fruit. 'Give, give,' the famished hunters cry--, 'a thousand
shekels for a yam!--a prince's ransom for a meal!--Oh,
stranger! on our knees we worship thee:--take, take our gold; but let
us live!' Yams are thrown them and they fight. Then he who toiled not,
dug not, slaved not, straight loads his caravans with gold; regains
the beach, and swift embarks for home. 'Home! home!' the hunters cry,
with bursting eyes. 'With this bright gold, could we but join our
waiting wives, who wring their hands on distant shores, all then were
well. But we can not fly; our prows lie rotting on the beach. Ah!
home! thou only happiness!--better thy silver earnings than all these
golden findings. Oh, bitter end to all our hopes--we die in golden
graves."

CHAPTER LXIII
They Seek Through The Isles Of Palms; And Pass The Isles Of Myrrh

Now, our prows we turned due west, across the blue lagoon.

Soon, no land appeared. Far as the eye could sweep, one azure plain;
all over flaked with foamy fleeces:--a boundless flock upon a
boundless mead!

Again, all changed. Like stars in multitude, bright islets multiplied
around. Emerald-green, they dotted shapes fantastic: circles, arcs,
and crescents;--atolls all, or coral carcanets, begemmed and flashing
in the sun.

By these we glided, group after group; and through the foliage, spied
sweet forms of maidens, like Eves in Edens ere the Fall, or
Proserpines in Ennas. Artless airs came from the shore; and from the
censer-swinging roses, a bloom, as if from Hebe's cheek.

"Here, at last, we find sweet Yillah!" murmured Yoomy. "Here must she
lurk in innocence! Quick! Let us land and search."

"If here," said Babbalanja, "Yillah will not stay our coming, but fly
before us through the groves. Wherever a canoe is beached, see you not
the palm-trees pine? Not so, where never keel yet smote the strand. In
mercy, let us fly from hence. I know not why, but our breath here,
must prove a blight."

These regions passed, we came to savage islands, where the glittering
coral seemed bones imbedded, bleaching in the sun. Savage men stood
naked on the strand, and brandished uncouth clubs, and gnashed the