"'Cold,' O Mulgar, and with a jacket of sheep's wool, thick and curled, like that?"
Nod laughed. "It was a pleasant coat when it was new, Midden, but we are old friends now—it and me. And though it keeps me warm enough marching by day, when night comes, and this never-to-be-forgotten frost sharpens, my bones begin to ache, as did my mother's before me, whose grave not even Kush can see."
"The Mulgar should live, like me, in the water, then he, too, would never know of cold. Whither do you and your brothers wander, O Mulgar?"
"We have come," said Nod, "from beyond all Munza-mulgar, that lies on the other side of the river of the saffron-fearing Coccadrilloes—that is, many score leagues southward of Arakkaboa—and we go to our Uncle, King Assasimmon, Prince of the Valleys of Tishnar—that is, if that Mountain-prince, my friend Ghibba, can find us a way."
The Water-midden looked at Nod, and drew softly, slowly back her smooth gold locks from the slippery water. "The Mulla-mulgar, then, has seen great dangers?" she said. "He is very young and little to have travelled so far."
Nod's voice grew the least bit glorious. "'Little and young,'" he said. "Oh yes. And yet, O beautiful Water-midden, my brothers would never have been here without me."
"Tell me why that is," she said, leaning out of her heavy hair.
"Because—because," Nod answered slowly, and not daring to look into her face—"because Queen Tishnar watches over me."
The Water-midden leaned her head. "But Tishnar watches over all," she said.
"Why, then, O Midden, has, as your song said, Tishnar made you so sad?"