Trenmore shook his head. "Not to me. I've traveled many a land, and read not a few books, old and new; but nowhere have I heard that name before."
"Nor I," said Viola.
Drayton was silent a moment, searching his memory. Then his face fell. "I recall the association now," he observed discontentedly. "It's no help. There were some letters-the first letters of that name-carved on the ruins back there. I read them, while the ruins were still ruins."
For a while they walked on in silence. With the breaking of that one ring of dancing forms the plain seemed gradually to have cleared, so that they were again alone with the moonlight and each other. Alone until, long before they saw the White Weaver, they heard her singing.
That was a wondrous, murmurous, liquid song of hers, like shallow summer brooks and rustling fields. They were not surprised to come upon her at last, seated in the moon-frosted grass, tossing a weaver's shuttle between her outstretched hands. They could see neither loom nor thread nor web, however, save a thousand silver cobwebs on the grass. All the plain was agleam with them.
This is the song she was singing, or as much of it as any of them could afterward recall:
"The web lies broad in the weaving room.
(Fly, little shuttle fly!)
The air is loud with the clashing loom.
(Fly, little shuttle fly!)"