“Trust your luck, Taran Wanderer. But don't forget to put out your nets!”

“Llonio said life was a net for luck; to Hevydd the Smith life was a forge; and to Dwyvach the Weaver-Woman a loom. They spoke truly, for it is all of these. But you,' Taran said, his eyes meeting the potter's, 'you have shown me life is one thing more. It is clay to be shaped, as raw clay on a potter's wheel.”

“He will not succeed in this," Taran said. "Somehow, we must find a way to escape. We dare not lose hope." "I agree absolutely," Fflewddur answered. "Your general idea is excellent; it's only the details that are lacking...”

“Go back' Taran shouted at the top of his voice.'Have you lost your wits?'Eilonwy, for it was she, half-halted. She had tucked her plaited hair under a leather helmet. The Princess of Llyr smiled cheerfully at him. 'I understand you're upset,' she shouted back, 'but that's no cause to be rude.' She galloped on.For a time, Taran could not believe he had really seen her.”

“No, no," said Taran slowly, "It would be folly to think of attacking them." He smiled quickly at Fflewddur. "The bards would sing of us," he admitted, "but we'd be in no position to appreciate it.”

“Morgant?" Taran asked, turning a puzzled glance to Gwydion. "How can there be honor for such a man?" "It is easy to judge evil unmixed," replied Gwydion. "But, alas, in most of us good and bad are closely woven as the threads on a loom; greater wisdom than mine is needed for the judging.”

“For Wayfarers still journeying, for Wanderers at rest.”