Out from those depths up rose a stream.

The land lay basking in the world's round torrid brisket, hot with
solar fire.

"No need here to land," cried Yoomy, "Yillah lurks not here."

"Heat breeds life, and sloth, and rage," said Babbalanja. "Here live
bastard tribes and mongrel nations; wrangling and murdering to prove
their freedom.--Refill, my lord."

"Methinks, Babbalanja, you savor of the mysterious parchment, in
Vivenza read:--Ha? Yes, philosopher, these are the men, who toppled
castles to make way for hovels; these, they who fought for freedom,
but find it despotism to rule themselves. These, Babbalanja, are of
the race, to whom a tyrant would prove a blessing." So saying he
drained his cup.

"My lord, that last sentiment decides the authorship of the scroll.
But, with deference, tyrants seldom can prove blessings; inasmuch as
evil seldom eventuates in good. Yet will these people soon have a
tyrant over them, if long they cleave to war. Of many javelins, one
must prove a scepter; of many helmets, one a crown. It is but in the
wearing.--Refill, my lord."

"Fools, fools!" cried Media, "these tribes hate us kings; yet know
not, that Peace is War against all kings. We seldom are undone by
spears, which are our ministers.--This wine is strong."