"Philosopher you seem puzzled to account for the riddles of your race," cried Media, sideways reclining at his ease. "Now, do thou, old Mohi, stand up before a demi-god, and answer for all.--Draw nigh, so I can eye thee. What art thou, mortal?"
"My worshipful lord, a man."
"And what are men?"
"My lord, before thee is a specimen."
"I fear me, my lord will get nothing out of that witness," said Babbalanja. "Pray you, King Media, let another inquisitor cross- question."
"Proceed; take the divan."
"A pace or two farther off, there, Mohi; so I can garner thee all in at a glance.--Attention! Rememberest thou, fellow-being, when thou wast born?"
"Not I. Old Braid-Beard had no memory then."
"When, then, wast thou first conscious of being?"
"What time I was teething: my first sensation was
