“Well, Stranger, that you will not with a burden on your mind. That’s so, lad?” Tom asked, turning to Owen.
“I shall not rest till I have told my dream,” he resumed. “All day and every day my little one lies on her back—the crooked back that is killin’ her.”
“Dear anwyl!” exclaimed Owen to Jane and Tom, “’tis very like his little one.”
“Aye, lad,” answered Jane, while the wind drew gently over the house-roof.
“The dream came many times an’ I did not heed it.”
“He who follows dreams follows fools,” interrupted Tom.
“I am a poor man, with naught richer than dreams to follow, an’ no mother for my child. If the dream prove true, gold would make my little one well. But the days are goin’ fast an’ she is weaker every day.”
“Och!” sighed Jane.
“Tut, a dream come true!” scoffed Tom, laughing. “But what was your dream?” he asked, leaning forward.
“It was of a pitcherful of gold hid beneath a ruin of rocks piled one upon another, an’ it was near a great fortress built in a fashion unknown to me. The fortress was on the crown of a rugged hill, an’ it seemed away from the sea. So I have travelled eastward.”