“Who are these men?” he asked me.
“The Sons of God,” I said; I not knowing what I said, for it was but a child I was.
He smiled at that. “Behold,” he spoke to the twelve men who sat at the table, “behold the little one is wiser than the wisest of ye.” At that all smiled with the gladness and the joy, save one: him that was in the shadow. He looked at me, and I remembered two black lonely tarns upon the hillside, black with the terror because of the kelpie and the drowner.
“Who are these men?” I whispered, with the tremor on me, that was come of the awe I had.
“They are the Twelve Weavers, Art, my little child.”
“And what is their weaving?”
“They weave for my Father, whose web I am.”
At that I looked upon the prince, but I could see no web.
“Are you not Iosa the Prince?”
“I am the Web of Life, Art lennavan-mo.”