“Cynic! have done.—But bravo! we’ll ere long be in Franko, the goodliest vale of them all; how I long to take her old king by the hand!”
The sun was now setting behind us, lighting up the white cliffs of Dominora, and the green capes of Verdanna; while in deep shade lay before us the long winding shores of Porpheero.
It was a sunset serene.
“How the winds lowly warble in the dying day’s ear,” murmured Yoomy.
“A mild, bright night, we’ll have,” said Media.
“See you not those clouds over Franko, my lord,” said Mohi, shaking his head.
“Ah, aged and weather-wise as ever, sir chronicler;—I predict a fair night, and many to follow.”
“Patience needs no prophet,” said Babbalanja. “The night, is at hand.”
Hitherto the lagoon had been smooth: but anon, it grew black, and stirred; and out of the thick darkness came clamorous sounds. Soon, there shot into the air a vivid meteor, which bursting at the zenith, radiated down the firmament in fiery showers, leaving treble darkness behind.
Then as all held their breath, from Franko there spouted an eruption, which seemed to plant all Mardi in the foreground.