vast, was reached;
--Hamora! far trending toward the Antarctic Pole.

Coasting on by barbarous beaches, where painted men, with spears,
charged on all attempts to land, at length we rounded a mighty bluff,
lit by a beacon; and heard a bugle call:--Bello's! hurrying to their
quarters, the World-End's garrison.

Here, the sea rolled high, in mountain surges: mid which, we toiled
and strained, as if ascending cliffs of Caucasus.

But not long thus. As when from howling Rhoetian heights, the traveler
spies green Lombardy below, and downward rushes toward that pleasant
plain; so, sloping from long rolling swells, at last we launched upon
the calm lagoon.

But as we northward sailed, once more the storm-trump blew, and
charger-like, the seas ran mustering to the call; and in battalions
crouched before a towering rock, far distant from the main. No moon,
eclipsed in Egypt's skies, looked half so lone. But from out that
darkness, on the loftiest peak, Bello's standard waved.

"Oh rifled tomb!" cried Babbalanja. "Wherein lay the Mars and
Moloch of our times, whose constellated crown, was gemmed with
diadems. Thou god of war! who didst seem the devouring Beast of the
Apocalypse; casting so vast a shadow over Mardi, that yet it lingers
in old Franko's vale; where still they start at thy tremendous ghost;
and, late, have hailed a phantom, King! Almighty hero-spell! that
after the lapse of half a century, can so bewitch all hearts! But one
drop of hero-blood will deify a fool.

"Franko! thou wouldst be free; yet thy free homage is to the buried
ashes of a King; thy first choice, the exaltation of his race. In
furious fires, thou burn'st Ludwig's throne; and over thy new-made
chieftain's portal, in golden letters print'st--'The Palace of our
Lord!' In thy New Dispensation, thou cleavest to the exploded Law. And
on Freedom's altar--ah, I fear--still, may slay thy hecatombs. But
Freedom turns away; she is sick with burnt blood of offerings. Other
rituals she loves; and like Oro, unseen herself, would be worshiped
only by invisibles. Of long drawn cavalcades, pompous processions,
frenzied banners, mystic music, marching nations, she will none. Oh,
may thy peaceful Future, Franko, sanctify thy bloody Past. Let not
history say; 'To her old gods, she turned again.'"

This rocky islet passed, the sea went down; once more we neared
Hamora's western shore. In the deep darkness, here and there, its
margin was lit up by foam-white, bre