Now, Yoomy, a song!" And a song was sung.
And thus did we sail; pleasantly reclining on the mats stretched out beneath the canopied howdah.
At length, we drew nigh to a rock, called Pella, or The Theft.

A high, green crag, toppling over its base, and flinging a cavernous shadow upon the lagoon beneath, bubbling with the moisture that dropped.
Passing under this cliff was like finding yourself, as some sea- hunters unexpectedly have, beneath the open, upper jaw of a whale; which, descending, infallibly entombs you.

But familiar with the rock, our paddlers only threw back their heads, to catch the cool, pleasant tricklings from the mosses above.
Wiping away several glittering beads from his beard, old Mohi turning round where he sat, just outside the canopy, solemnly affirmed, that the drinking of that water had cured many a man of ambition.
"How so, old man ?" demanded Media.
"Because of its passing through the ashes of ten kings, of yore buried in a sepulcher, hewn in the heart of the rock." "Mighty kings, and famous, doubtless," said Babbalanja, "whose bones were thought worthy of so noble and enduring as urn.

Pray, Mohi, their names and terrible deeds." "Alas! their sepulcher only remains." "And, no doubt, like many others, they made that sepul for themselves.

They sleep sound, my word for it, old man.