'O'er hill and dale seeking for something.'
The voice grew clearer as if the singer was toiling up the unseen path below the lilies.
'Foul play! foul play!--look down and decide.'
'The mad potter!' cried Dan, with wonder in his tone.
'Azîzan! it is her turn at last,' cried Rose, with a hush in hers, which sent a thrill through Lewis Gordon--though he only said prosaically--
'I'll go and see who it is.'
But Dan had forestalled the thought, and, vaulting the railings, had disappeared into the mist, whence they could hear him hallooing down the path to the unseen singer as they stood waiting by the lilies. Then came a quick greeting, a low reply, and so, clearer and clearer--though they could see nothing--every syllable of eager questioning and slow answer until, as if from behind a veil, the strange couple stepped into sight--Dan, eager, excited, towering above the bent, deprecating figure of the old potter.
They had heard so much, those three in the verandah, that Rose without a pause could step forward and strike at the very root of the matter with the question, 'What is it? What is it that you want of me?'
The shifty, light eyes settled on her face with a look of relief before the old man bent to touch her feet.
'Mâdr-mihrbân,' he said. 'Mâdr-mihrbân--that is well!'