86. CHAPTER LXXXVI.
That starless midnight, there stole from out the darkness,
the Iris flag of Hautia.
Again the sirens came. They bore a large and stately
urn-like flower, white as alabaster, and glowing, as if lit
up within. From its calyx, flame-like, trembled forked and
crimson stamens, burning with intensest odors.
The phantoms nearer came; their flower, as an urn of
burning niter. Then it changed, and glowed like Persian
dawns; or passive, was shot over by palest lightnings;—so
variable its tints.
“The night-blowing Cereus!” said Yoomy, shuddering,
“that never blows in sun-light; that blows but once; and
blows but for an hour.—For the last time I come; now, in
your midnight of despair, and promise you this glory. Take
heed! short time hast thou to pause; through me, perhaps,
thy Yillah may be found.”
“Away! away! tempt me not by that, enchantress!
Hautia! I know thee not; I fear thee not; but instinct
makes me hate thee. Away! my eyes are frozen shut; I
will not be tempted more.”
“How glorious it burns!” cried Media. I reel with
incense:—can such sweets be evil?”
“Look! look!” cried Yoomy, “its petals wane, and
creep; one moment more, and the night-flower shuts up
forever the last, last hope of Yillah!”
“Yillah! Yillah! Yillah!” bayed three vengeful voices
far behind.
“Yillah! Yillah!—dash the urn! I follow, Hautia!
though thy lure be death.”
The Cereus closed; and in a mist the siren prow went
on before; we, following.
When day dawned, three radiant pilot-fish swam in
advance: three ravenous sharks astern.
And, full before us, rose the isle of Hautia.
