Then, from the opposite mists, glided a second canoe; and beneath the Iris round the moon, shone now another:—Hautia’s flowery flag!
Vain to wave the sirens off; so still they came.
One waved a plant of sickly silver-green.
“The Midnight Tremmella!” cried Yoomy; “the falling-star of flowers!— Still I come, when least foreseen; then flee.”
The second waved a hemlock top, the spike just tapering its final point. The third, a convolvulus, half closed. “The end draws nigh, and all thy hopes are waning.” Then they proffered grapes.
But once more waved off, silently they vanished.
Again the buried barb tore, at my soul; again Yillah was invoked, but Hautia made reply.
Slowly wore out the night. But when uprose the sun, fled clouds, and fled sadness.
CHAPTER LXX.
They Land At Hooloomooloo
“Keep all three prows, for yonder rock.” cried Media; “No sadness on this merry morn! And now for the Isle of Cripples,—even Hooloomooloo.”