{"id":"01KG8AKQ15EG26C1AQAT4YP46B","cid":"bafkreifhzhu3fkkxvdaegiizdrayncc2odvknpzqx2nbizkypxejloyd5q","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":4399,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:09.927Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 1","source_file":"01KG89J1954N2G0NAERBNJXEX9","start_line":4317,"text":"CHAPTER XXXII.\r\nMy Lord Media Summons Mohi To The Stand\r\n\r\n\r\nWhile slowly the night wore on, and the now scudding clouds flown past,\r\nrevealed again the hosts in heaven, few words were uttered save by\r\nMedia; who, when all others were most sad and silent, seemed but little\r\nmoved, or not stirred a jot.\r\n\r\nBut that night, he filled his flagon fuller than his wont, and drank,\r\nand drank, and pledged the stars.\r\n\r\n“Here’s to thee, old Arcturus! To thee, old Aldebaran! who ever poise\r\nyour wine-red, fiery spheres on high. A health to _thee_, my regal\r\nfriend, Alphacca, in the constellation of the Crown: Lo! crown to\r\ncrown, I pledge thee! I drink to _ye_, too, Alphard! Markab! Denebola!\r\nCapella!—to _ye_, too, sailing Cygnus! Aquila soaring!—All round, a\r\nhealth to all your diadems! May they never fade! nor mine!”\r\n\r\nAt last, in the shadowy east, the Dawn, like a gray, distant sail\r\nbefore the wind, was descried; drawing nearer and nearer, till her\r\ngilded prow was perceived.\r\n\r\nAnd as in tropic gales, the winds blow fierce, and more fierce, with\r\nthe advent of the sun; so with King Media; whose mirth now breezed up\r\nafresh. But, as at sunrise, the sea-storm only blows harder, to settle\r\ndown at last into a steady wind; even so, in good time, my lord Media\r\ncame to be more decorous of mood. And Babbalanja abated his reveries.\r\n\r\nFor who might withstand such a morn!\r\n\r\nAs on the night-banks of the far-rolling Ganges, the royal bridegroom\r\nsets forth for his bride, preceded by nymphs, now this side, now that,\r\nlighting up all the flowery flambeaux held on high as they pass; so\r\ncame the Sun, to his nuptials with Mardi:—the Hours going on before,\r\ntouching all the peaks, till they glowed rosy-red.\r\n\r\nBy reflex, the lagoon, here and there, seemed on fire; each curling\r\nwave-crest a flame.\r\n\r\nNoon came as we sailed.\r\n\r\nAnd now, citrons and bananas, cups and calabashes, calumets and\r\ntobacco, were passed round; and we were all very merry and mellow\r\nindeed. Smacking our lips, chatting, smoking, and sipping. Now a\r\nmouthful of citron to season a repartee; now a swallow of wine to wash\r\ndown a precept; now a fragrant whiff to puff away care. Many things did\r\nbeguile. From side to side, we turned and grazed, like Juno’s white\r\noxen in clover meads.\r\n\r\nSoon, we drew nigh to a charming cliff, overrun with woodbines, on high\r\nsuspended from flowering Tamarisk and Tamarind-trees. The blossoms of\r\nthe Tamarisks, in spikes of small, red bells; the Tamarinds,\r\nwide-spreading their golden petals, red-streaked as with streaks of the\r\ndawn. Down sweeping to the water, the vines trailed over to the crisp,\r\ncurling waves,—little pages, all eager to hold up their trains.\r\n\r\nWithin, was a bower; going behind it, like standing inside the sheet of\r\nthe falls of the Genesee.\r\n\r\nIn this arbor we anchored. And with their shaded prows thrust in among\r\nthe flowers, our three canoes seemed baiting by the way, like wearied\r\nsteeds in a hawthorn lane.\r\n\r\nHigh midsummer noon is more silent than night. Most sweet a siesta\r\nthen. And noon dreams are day-dreams indeed; born under the meridian\r\nsun. Pale Cynthia begets pale specter shapes; and her frigid rays best\r\nilluminate white nuns, marble monuments, icy glaciers, and cold tombs.\r\n\r\nThe sun rolled on. And starting to his feet, arms clasped, and wildly\r\nstaring, Yoomy exclaimed—“Nay, nay, thou shalt not depart, thou\r\nmaid!—here, here I fold thee for aye!—Flown?—A dream! Then siestas\r\nhenceforth while I live. And at noon, every day will I meet thee, sweet\r\nmaid! And, oh Sun! set not; and poppies bend over us, when next we\r\nembrace!”\r\n\r\n“What ails that somnambulist?” cried Media, rising. “Yoomy, I say! what\r\nails thee?”\r\n\r\n“He must have indulged over freely in those citrons,” said Mohi,\r\nsympathetically rubbing his fruitery. “Ho, Yoomy! a swallow of brine\r\nwill help thee.”\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 1"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AJRBN0PDBRWRNHPDPMRY6","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J1954N2G0NAERBNJXEX9","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AKQ15KVG5HBWVP2YQ7N05","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:13.349Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:48:22.173Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}