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- 6977
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- 2026-01-30T20:48:09.927Z
- extracted_by
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- text
- “More fierce this, than the eruption which happened in my youth,” said
Mohi—“methinks that Franko’s end has come.”
“You look pale, my lord,” said Babbalanja, “while all other faces
glow;—Yoomy, doff that halo in the presence of a king.”
Over the waters came a rumbling sound, mixed with the din of warfare,
and thwarted by showers of embers that fell not, for the whirling
blasts.
“Off shore! off shore!” cried Media; and with all haste we gained a
place of safety.
Down the valley now poured Rhines and Rhones of lava, a fire-freshet,
flooding the forests from their fastnesses, and leaping with them into
the seething sea.
The shore was lined with multitudes pushing off wildly in canoes.
Meantime, the fiery storm from Franko, kindled new flames in the
distant valleys of Porpheero; while driven over from Verdanna came
frantic shouts, and direful jubilees. Upon Dominora a baleful glare was
resting.
“Thrice cursed flames!” cried Media. “Is Mardi to be one conflagration?
How it crackles, forks, and roars!—Is this our funeral pyre?”
“Recline, recline, my lord,” said Babbalanja. “Fierce flames are ever
brief—a song, sweet Yoomy! Your pipe, old Mohi! Greater fires than this
have ere now blazed in Mardi. Let us be calm;—the isles were made to
burn;—Braid-Beard! hereafter, in some quiet cell, of this whole scene
you will but make one chapter;—come, digest it now.”
“My face is scorched,” cried Media.
“The last, last day!” cried Mohi.
“Not so, old man,” said Babbalanja, “when that day dawns, ’twill dawn
serene. Be calm, be calm, my potent lord.”
“Talk not of calm brows in storm-time!” cried Media fiercely. “See! how
the flames blow over upon Dominora!”
“Yet the fires they kindle there are soon extinguished,” said
Babbalanja. “No, no; Dominora ne’er can burn with Franko’s fires; only
those of her own kindling may consume her.”
“Away! Away!” cried Media. “We may not touch Porpheero now.—Up sails!
and westward be our course.”
So dead before the blast, we scudded.
Morning broke, showing no sign of land.
“Hard must it go with Franko’s king,” said Media, “when his people rise
against him with the red volcanoes. Oh, for a foot to crush them! Hard,
too, with all who rule in broad Porpheero. And may she we seek, survive
this conflagration!”
“My lord,” said Babbalanja, “where’ere she hide, ne’er yet did Yillah
lurk in this Porpheero; nor have we missed the maiden, noble Taji! in
not touching at its shores.”
“This fire must make a desert of the land,” said Mohi; “burn up and
bury all her tilth.”
“Yet, Mohi, vineyards flourish over buried villages,” murmured Yoomy.
“True, minstrel,” said Babbalanja, “and prairies are purified by fire.
Ashes breed loam. Nor can any skill make the same surface forever
fruitful. In all times past, things have been overlaid; and though the
first fruits of the marl are wild and poisonous, the palms at last
spring forth; and once again the tribes repose in shade. My lord, if
calms breed storms, so storms calms; and all this dire commotion must
eventuate in peace. It may be, that Perpheero’s future has been cheaply
won.”
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