For a time, each prow’s ripplings were distinctly heard: ripple after ripple.
With silent, steadfast eyes, Media still preserved his noble mien; Mohi his reverend repose; Yoomy his musing mood.
But as a summer hurricane leaves all nature still, and smiling to the eye; yet, in deep woods, there lie concealed some anguished roots torn up:—so, with these.
Much they longed, to point our prows for Odo’s isle; saying our search was over.
But I was fixed as fate.
On we sailed, as when we first embarked; the air was bracing as before. More isles we visited:—thrice encountered the avengers: but unharmed; thrice Hautia’s heralds but turned not aside;—saw many checkered scenes—wandered through groves, and open fields—traversed many vales—climbed hill-tops whence broad views were gained—tarried in towns—broke into solitudes—sought far, sought near:—Still Yillah there was none.
Then again they all would fain dissuade me.
“Closed is the deep blue eye,” said Yoomy.
“Fate’s last leaves are turning, let me home and die,” said Mohi.
“So nigh the circuit’s done,” said Media, “our morrow’s sun must rise o’er Odo; Taji! renounce the hunt.”