"Let the winds be laid," cried Mohi, "while your rash confession is
being made in this sacred lake."

Said Media, "Philosopher; remember the boy, and they that seized him."

"Ah! I do indeed remember him. Poor youth! in his agony, how my heart
yearned toward his. But that very prudence which you deny me, my lord,
prevented me from saying aught in his behalf. Have you not observed,
that until now, when we are completely by ourselves, I have refrained
from freely discoursing of what we have seen in this island? Trust me,
my lord, there is no man, that bears more in mind the necessity of
being either a believer or a hypocrite in Maramma, and the imminent
peril of being honest here, than I, Babbalanja. And have I not reason
to be wary, when in my boyhood, my own sire was burnt for his
temerity; and in this very isle? Just Oro! it was done in the name of
Alma,--what wonder then, that, at times, I almost hate that sound. And
from those flames, they devoutly swore he went to others,--horrible
fable!"

Said Mohi: "Do you deny, then, the everlasting torments?"

"'Tis not worth a denial. Nor by formally denying it, will I run the
risk of shaking the faith of, thousands, who in that pious belief find
infinite consolation for all they suffer in Mardi."

"How?" said Media; "are there those who soothe themselves with the
thought of everlasting flames?"

"One would think so, my lord, since they defend that dogma more
resolutely than any other. Sooner will they yield you the isles of