To this Mohi, with some ire, was about to make answer, when, flinging over his shoulder a new fold of his mantle, Babbalanja spoke thus: “Peace, rivals. As Bardianna has it, like all who dispute upon pretensions of their own, you are each nearest the right, when you speak of the other; and furthest therefrom, when you speak of yourselves.”
Said Mohi and Yoomy in a breath, “Who sought your opinion, philosopher? you filcher from old Bardianna, and monger of maxims!”
“You, who have so long marked the vices of Mardi, that you flatter yourself you have none of your own,” added Braid-Beard.
“You, who only seem wise, because of the contrasting follies of others, and not of any great wisdom in yourself,” continued the minstrel, with unwonted asperity.”
“Now here,” said Babballanja, “am I charged upon by a bearded old ram, and a lamb. One butting with his carious and brittle old frontlet; the other pushing with its silly head before its horns are sprouted. But this comes of being impartial. Had I espoused the cause of Yoomy versus Mohi, or that of Mohi versus Yoomy, I had been sure to have had at least one voice in my favor. The impartialist insulteth all sides, saith old Bardianna; but smite with but one hand, and the other shall be kissed.—Oh incomparable Bardianna!”
“Will no one lay that troubled old ghost,” exclaimed Media, devoutly. “Proceed with thy legend, Yoomy; and see to it, that it be brief; for I mistrust me, these legends do but test the patience of the hearers. But draw a long breath, and begin.”
“A long bow,” muttered Mohi.
And Yoomy began.
“It is now about ten hundred thousand moons—”
“Great Oro! How long since, say you?” cried Mohi, making Gothic arches of his brows.