CHAPTER LXIX.
After A Long Interval, By Night They Are Becalmed Now suns rose, and set; moons grew, and waned; till, at last, the star that erewhile heralded the dawn, presaged the eve; to us, sad token!-- while deep within the deepest heart of Mardi's circle, we sailed from sea to sea; and isle to isle; and group to group;--vast empires explored, and inland valleys, to their utmost heads; and for every ray in heaven, beheld a king.
Needless to recount all that then befell; what tribes and caravans we saw; what vast horizons; boundless plains: and sierras, in their every intervale, a nation nestling.
Enough that still we roamed.
It was evening; and as the red sun, magnified, launched into the wave, once more, from a wild strand, we launched our three canoes.
Soon, from her clouds, hooded Night, like a nun from a convent, drew nigh.

Rustled her train, yet no spangles were there.

But high on her brow, still shone her pale crescent; haloed by bandelets--violet, red, and yellow.

So looked the lone watcher through her rainbow-iris; so sad, the night without stars.
The winds were laid; the lagoon, still, as a prairie of an August noon.
"Let us dream out the calm," said Media.

"One of ye paddlers, watch: Ho companions! who's for Cathay ?" Sleep reigned throughout the canoes, sleeping upon the waters.