darkness, on the loftiest peak, Bello's standard waved.

"Oh rifled tomb!" cried Babbalanja. "Wherein lay the Mars and
Moloch of our times, whose constellated crown, was gemmed with
diadems. Thou god of war! who didst seem the devouring Beast of the
Apocalypse; casting so vast a shadow over Mardi, that yet it lingers
in old Franko's vale; where still they start at thy tremendous ghost;
and, late, have hailed a phantom, King! Almighty hero-spell! that
after the lapse of half a century, can so bewitch all hearts! But one
drop of hero-blood will deify a fool.

"Franko! thou wouldst be free; yet thy free homage is to the buried
ashes of a King; thy first choice, the exaltation of his race. In
furious fires, thou burn'st Ludwig's throne; and over thy new-made
chieftain's portal, in golden letters print'st--'The Palace of our
Lord!' In thy New Dispensation, thou cleavest to the exploded Law. And
on Freedom's altar--ah, I fear--still, may slay thy hecatombs. But
Freedom turns away; she is sick with burnt blood of offerings. Other
rituals she loves; and like Oro, unseen herself, would be worshiped
only by invisibles. Of long drawn cavalcades, pompous processions,
frenzied banners, mystic music, marching nations, she will none. Oh,
may thy peaceful Future, Franko, sanctify thy bloody Past. Let not
history say; 'To her old gods, she turned again.'"

This rocky islet passed, the sea went down; once more we neared
Hamora's western shore. In the deep darkness, here and there, its
margin was lit up by foam-white, breaking billows rolled over from
Vivenza's strand, and down from northward Dominora; marking places
where light was breaking in, upon the interior's jungle-gloom.