ah-ha-yah! yah-yah-yah!" was the chorus to that deep, recurrent cry of the Shamán.

The quaggy banks, now darkening, slid more rapidly astern; while the steersman and his mates in the high bow invoked the wind with alternate chant, plaintive, mysterious, and half musical: "Ay-ly-chy-ly Ah-ha-aah!"

do you forget the gypsy who predicted that you were to murder me, Dickeh?" "Ah-ha, ha!" laughed Marston, with a start.

" "Ah-ha!" Here was a patch of blue skya glimpse of the sun.