“It is called Tozie, ma'am, not cozie,” continued the traveller; “the Shroffs at Surat told me in 1801, that it is made out of the inner coat of a goat.”
“Of a sheep, sir, I am thinking ye mean, for goats has nae woo'.”
“Not much of it, indeed, madam, but you are to understand they use only the inmost coat; and then their dyes—that Tozie now will keep its colour while there is a rag of it left—men bequeath them in legacies to their grandchildren.”
“And a very bonny colour it is,” said the dame; “something like a mouse's back, only a thought redder—I wonder what they ca' that colour.”
“The colour is much admired, madam,” said Touchwood, who was now on a favourite topic; “the Mussulmans say the colour is betwixt that of an elephant and the breast of the faughta.”
“In troth, I am as wise as I was,” said Mrs. Blower.
“The faughta, madam, so called by the Moors, (for the Hindhus call it hollah,) is a sort of pigeon, held sacred among the Moslem of India, because they think it dyed its breast in the blood of Ali.—But I see they are closing the scene.—Mr. Cargill, are you composing your sermon, my good friend, or what can you be thinking of?”
Mr. Cargill had, during the whole scene, remained with his eyes fixed, in intent and anxious, although almost unconscious gaze, upon Clara Mowbray; and when the voice of his companion startled him out of his reverie, he exclaimed, “Most lovely—most unhappy—yes—I must and will see her!”
“See her?” replied Touchwood, too much accustomed to his friend's singularities to look for much reason or connexion in any thing he said or did; “Why, you shall see her and talk to her too, if that will give you pleasure.—They say now,” he continued, lowering his voice to a whisper, “that this Mowbray is ruined. I see nothing like it, since he can dress out his sister like a Begum. Did you ever see such a splendid shawl?”
“Dearly purchased splendour,” said Mr. Cargill, with a deep sigh; “I wish that the price be yet fully paid!”