In long lines, as on Denderah's architraves, were bas-reliefs of beetles, turtles, ant-eaters, armadilloes, guanos, serpents, tongueless crocodiles:--a long procession, frosted and crystalized in stone, and silvered by the moon.
"Strange sight!" cried Media.

"Speak, antiquarian Mohi." But the chronicler was twitching his antiquarian beard, nonplussed by these wondrous records.

The cowled old father, Piaggi, bending over his calcined Herculanean manuscripts, looked not more at fault than he.
Said Media, "Expound you, then, sage Babbalanja." Muffling his face in his mantle, and his voice in sepulchral tones, Babbalanja thus:-- "These are the leaves of the book of Oro.

Here we read how worlds are made; here read the rise and fall of Nature's kingdoms.

From where this old man's furthest histories start, these unbeginning records end.