“Babbalanja,” said Media, “you have fairly turned yourself inside out.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Mohi, “and he has so unsettled me, that I begin to think all Mardi a square circle.”
“How is that, Babbalanja,” said Media, “is a circle square?”
“No, my lord, but ever since Mardi began, we Mardians have been essaying our best to square it.”
“Cleverly retorted. Now, Babbalanja, do you not imagine, that you may do harm by disseminating these sophisms of yours; which like your devil theory, would seem to relieve all Mardi from moral accountability?”
“My lord, at bottom, men wear no bonds that other men can strike off; and have no immunities, of which other men can deprive them. Tell a good man that he is free to commit murder,—will he murder? Tell a murderer that at the peril of his soul he indulges in murderous thoughts,—will that make him a saint?”
“Again on the verge, Babbalanja? Take not the leap, I say.”
“I can leap no more, my lord. Already I am down, down, down.”
“Philosopher,” said Media, “what with Azzageddi, and the mysterious indweller you darkly hint of, I marvel not that you are puzzled to decide upon your identity. But when do you seem most yourself?”
“When I sleep, and dream not, my lord.”