"Where's your potter's wheel?" I inquired.
"In the woods by Lake George, sire."
"Do you still find clay that suits you?"
"Yes, sire."
"Have you made that vase yet?"
"No, sire. I succeed in nothing."
"You succeed in tracking me."
He swam before my eyes, and I pointed to the surgeon's camp-chair.
"Not in your presence, sire."
"Have you lost your real dauphin?" I inquired.