In a dreamy, sunny day, the spangled plain beneath assumes an uncertain fleeting aspect.

Had you a deep-sea-lead you would almost be tempted to sound the ocean-haze at your feet.
This, mortal! is the precipice of Mondo.
From this brink, spear in hand, sprang fifty rebel warriors, driven back into the vale by a superior force.

Finding no spot to stand at bay, with a fierce shout they took the fatal leap.
Said Mohi, "Their souls ascended, ere their bodies touched." This tragical event took place many generations gone by, and now a dizzy, devious way conducts one, firm of foot, from the verge to the plain.

But none ever ascended.

So perilous, indeed, is the descent itself, that the islanders venture not the feat, without invoking supernatural aid.