Passing under an arch, formed by two pikes crossed, we found ourselves targets in prospective, for certain flingers of javelins, with poised weapons, occupying the angles of the palace.
Fronting us, stood a portly old warrior, spear in hand, hump on back, and fire in eye.
“Is it war?” he cried, pointing his pike, “or peace?” reversing it.
“Peace,” said Media.
Whereupon advancing, King Bello courteously welcomed us.
He was an arsenal to behold: Upon his head the hereditary crown of Dominora,—a helmet of the sea-porcupine’s hide, bristling all over with spikes, in front displaying a river-horse’s horn, leveled to the charge; thrust through his ears were barbed arrows; and from his dyed shark-skin girdle, depended a kilt of strung javelins.
The broad chest of Bello was the chart of Mardi. Tattooed in sea-blue were all the groups and clusters of the Archipelago; and every time he breathed, rose and fell the isles, as by a tide: Dominora full upon his heart.
His sturdy thighs were his triumphal arch; whereon in numerous medallions, crests, and shields, were blazoned all his victories by sea and land.
His strong right arm was Dominora’s scroll of Fame, where all her heroes saw their names recorded.—An endless roll!
Our chronicler avouched, that on the sole of Bello’s dexter foot was stamped the crest of Franko’s king, his hereditary foe. “Thus, thus,” cried Bello, stamping, “thus I hourly crush him.”