Kabanata Kabanata 11 · Before Pharaoh

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BEFORE PHARAOH

It was the day after the adventure of Julius Caesar and the Little

Black Girl that Cyril, bursting into the bathroom to wash his hands for

dinner (you have no idea how dirty they were, for he had been playing

shipwrecked mariners all the morning on the leads at the back of the

house, where the water-cistern is), found Anthea leaning her elbows on

the edge of the bath, and crying steadily into it.

“Hullo!” he said, with brotherly concern, “what’s up now? Dinner’ll be

cold before you’ve got enough salt-water for a bath.”

“Go away,” said Anthea fiercely. “I hate you! I hate everybody!”

There was a stricken pause.

“_I_ didn’t know,” said Cyril tamely.

“Nobody ever does know anything,” sobbed Anthea.

“I didn’t know you were waxy. I thought you’d just hurt your fingers

with the tap again like you did last week,” Cyril carefully explained.

“Oh—fingers!” sneered Anthea through her sniffs.

“Here, drop it, Panther,” he said uncomfortably. “You haven’t been

having a row or anything?”

“No,” she said. “Wash your horrid hands, for goodness’ sake, if that’s

what you came for, or go.”

Anthea was so seldom cross that when she was cross the others were

always more surprised than angry.

Cyril edged along the side of the bath and stood beside her. He put his

hand on her arm.

“Dry up, do,” he said, rather tenderly for him. And, finding that

though she did not at once take his advice she did not seem to resent

it, he put his arm awkwardly across her shoulders and rubbed his head

against her ear.

“There!” he said, in the tone of one administering a priceless cure for

all possible sorrows. “Now, what’s up?”

“Promise you won’t laugh?”

“I don’t feel laughish myself,” said Cyril, dismally.

“Well, then,” said Anthea, leaning her ear against his head, “it’s

Mother.”

“What’s the matter with Mother?” asked Cyril, with apparent want of

sympathy. “She was all right in her letter this morning.”

“Yes; but I want her so.”

“You’re not the only one,” said Cyril briefly, and the brevity of his

tone admitted a good deal.

“Oh, yes,” said Anthea, “I know. We all want her all the time. But I

want her now most dreadfully, awfully much. I never wanted anything so

much. That Imogen child—the way the ancient British Queen cuddled her

up! And Imogen wasn’t me, and the Queen was Mother. And then her letter

this morning! And about The Lamb liking the salt bathing! And she

bathed him in this very bath the night before she went away—oh, oh,

oh!”

Cyril thumped her on the back.

“Cheer up,” he said. “You know my inside thinking that I was doing?

Well, that was partly about Mother. We’ll soon get her back. If you’ll

chuck it, like a sensible kid, and wash your face, I’ll tell you about

it. That’s right. You let me get to the tap. Can’t you stop crying?

Shall I put the door-key down your back?”

“That’s for noses,” said Anthea, “and I’m not a kid any more than you

are,” but she laughed a little, and her mouth began to get back into

its proper shape. You know what an odd shape your mouth gets into when

you cry in earnest.

“Look here,” said Cyril, working the soap round and round between his

hands in a thick slime of grey soapsuds. “I’ve been thinking. We’ve

only just _played_ with the Amulet so far. We’ve got to _work_ it

now—work it for all it’s worth. And it isn’t only Mother either.

There’s Father out there all among the fighting. I don’t howl about it,

but I _think_—Oh, bother the soap!” The grey-lined soap had squirted

out under the pressure of his fingers, and had hit Anthea’s chin with

as much force as though it had been shot from a catapult.

“There now,” she said regretfully, “now I shall have to wash my face.”

“You’d have had to do that anyway,” said Cyril with conviction. “Now,

my idea’s this. You know missionaries?”

“Yes,” said Anthea, who did not know a single one.

“Well, they always take the savages beads and brandy, and stays, and

hats, and braces, and really useful things—things the savages haven’t

got, and never heard about. And the savages love them for their kind

generousness, and give them pearls, and shells, and ivory, and

cassowaries. And that’s the way—”

“Wait a sec,” said Anthea, splashing. “I can’t hear what you’re saying.

Shells and—”

“Shells, and things like that. The great thing is to get people to love

you by being generous. And that’s what we’ve got to do. Next time we go

into the Past we’ll regularly fit out the expedition. You remember how

the Babylonian Queen froze on to that pocket-book? Well, we’ll take

things like that. And offer them in exchange for a sight of the

Amulet.”

“A sight of it is not much good.”

“No, silly. But, don’t you see, when we’ve seen it we shall know where

it is, and we can go and take it in the night when everybody is

asleep.”

“It wouldn’t be stealing, would it?” said Anthea thoughtfully, “because

it will be such an awfully long time ago when we do it. Oh, there’s

that bell again.”

As soon as dinner was eaten (it was tinned salmon and lettuce, and a

jam tart), and the cloth cleared away, the idea was explained to the

others, and the Psammead was aroused from sand, and asked what it

thought would be good merchandise with which to buy the affection of

say, the Ancient Egyptians, and whether it thought the Amulet was

likely to be found in the Court of Pharaoh.

But it shook its head, and shot out its snail’s eyes hopelessly.

“I’m not allowed to play in this game,” it said. “Of course I _could_

find out in a minute where the thing was, only I mayn’t. But I may go

so far as to own that your idea of taking things with you isn’t a bad

one. And I shouldn’t show them all at once. Take small things and

conceal them craftily about your persons.”

This advice seemed good. Soon the table was littered over with things

which the children thought likely to interest the Ancient Egyptians.

Anthea brought dolls, puzzle blocks, a wooden tea-service, a green

leather case with _Nécessaire_ written on it in gold letters. Aunt Emma

had once given it to Anthea, and it had then contained scissors,

penknife, bodkin, stiletto, thimble, corkscrew, and glove-buttoner. The

scissors, knife, and thimble, and penknife were, of course, lost, but

the other things were there and as good as new. Cyril contributed lead

soldiers, a cannon, a catapult, a tin-opener, a tie-clip, and a tennis

ball, and a padlock—no key. Robert collected a candle (“I don’t suppose

they ever saw a self-fitting paraffin one,” he said), a penny Japanese

pin-tray, a rubber stamp with his father’s name and address on it, and

a piece of putty.

Jane added a key-ring, the brass handle of a poker, a pot that had held

cold-cream, a smoked pearl button off her winter coat, and a key—no

lock.

“We can’t take all this rubbish,” said Robert, with some scorn. “We

must just each choose one thing.”

The afternoon passed very agreeably in the attempt to choose from the

table the four most suitable objects. But the four children could not

agree what was suitable, and at last Cyril said—

“Look here, let’s each be blindfolded and reach out, and the first

thing you touch you stick to.”

This was done.

Cyril touched the padlock.

Anthea got the _Nécessaire_.

Robert clutched the candle.

Jane picked up the tie-clip.

“It’s not much,” she said. “I don’t believe Ancient Egyptians wore

ties.”

“Never mind,” said Anthea. “I believe it’s luckier not to really

choose. In the stories it’s always the thing the wood-cutter’s son

picks up in the forest, and almost throws away because he thinks it’s

no good, that turns out to be the magic thing in the end; or else

someone’s lost it, and he is rewarded with the hand of the King’s

daughter in marriage.”

“I don’t want any hands in marriage, thank you.” said Cyril firmly.

“Nor yet me,” said Robert. “It’s always the end of the adventures when

it comes to the marriage hands.”

“_Are_ we ready?” said Anthea.

“It _is_ Egypt we’re going to, isn’t it?—nice Egypt?” said Jane. “I

won’t go anywhere I don’t know about—like that dreadful big-wavy

burning-mountain city,” she insisted.

Then the Psammead was coaxed into its bag.

“I say,” said Cyril suddenly, “I’m rather sick of kings. And people

notice you so in palaces. Besides the Amulet’s sure to be in a Temple.

Let’s just go among the common people, and try to work ourselves up by

degrees. We might get taken on as Temple assistants.”

“Like beadles,” said Anthea, “or vergers. They must have splendid

chances of stealing the Temple treasures.”

“Righto!” was the general rejoinder. The charm was held up. It grew big

once again, and once again the warm golden Eastern light glowed softly

beyond it.

As the children stepped through it loud and furious voices rang in

their ears. They went suddenly from the quiet of Fitzroy Street

dining-room into a very angry Eastern crowd, a crowd much too angry to

notice them. They edged through it to the wall of a house and stood

there. The crowd was of men, women, and children. They were of all

sorts of complexions, and pictures of them might have been coloured by

any child with a shilling paint-box. The colours that child would have

used for complexions would have been yellow ochre, red ochre, light

red, sepia, and indian ink. But their faces were painted already—black

eyebrows and lashes, and some red lips. The women wore a sort of

pinafore with shoulder straps, and loose things wound round their heads

and shoulders. The men wore very little clothing—for they were the

working people—and the Egyptian boys and girls wore nothing at all,

unless you count the little ornaments hung on chains round their necks

and waists. The children saw all this before they could hear anything

distinctly. Everyone was shouting so.

But a voice sounded above the other voices, and presently it was

speaking in a silence.

“Comrades and fellow workers,” it said, and it was the voice of a tall,

coppery-coloured man who had climbed into a chariot that had been

stopped by the crowd. Its owner had bolted, muttering something about

calling the Guards, and now the man spoke from it. “Comrades and fellow

workers, how long are we to endure the tyranny of our masters, who live

in idleness and luxury on the fruit of our toil? They only give us a

bare subsistence wage, and they live on the fat of the land. We labour

all our lives to keep them in wanton luxury. Let us make an end of it!”

A roar of applause answered him.

“How are you going to do it?” cried a voice.

“You look out,” cried another, “or you’ll get yourself into trouble.”

“I’ve heard almost every single word of that,” whispered Robert, “in

Hyde Park last Sunday!”

“Let us strike for more bread and onions and beer, and a longer mid-day

rest,” the speaker went on. “You are tired, you are hungry, you are

thirsty. You are poor, your wives and children are pining for food. The

barns of the rich are full to bursting with the corn we want, the corn

our labour has grown. To the granaries!”

“To the granaries!” cried half the crowd; but another voice shouted

clear above the tumult, “To Pharaoh! To the King! Let’s present a

petition to the King! He will listen to the voice of the oppressed!”

For a moment the crowd swayed one way and another—first towards the

granaries and then towards the palace. Then, with a rush like that of

an imprisoned torrent suddenly set free, it surged along the street

towards the palace, and the children were carried with it. Anthea found

it difficult to keep the Psammead from being squeezed very

uncomfortably.

The crowd swept through the streets of dull-looking houses with few

windows, very high up, across the market where people were not buying

but exchanging goods. In a momentary pause Robert saw a basket of

onions exchanged for a hair comb and five fish for a string of beads.

The people in the market seemed better off than those in the crowd;

they had finer clothes, and more of them. They were the kind of people

who, nowadays, would have lived at Brixton or Brockley.

“What’s the trouble now?” a languid, large-eyed lady in a crimped,

half-transparent linen dress, with her black hair very much braided and

puffed out, asked of a date-seller.

“Oh, the working-men—discontented as usual,” the man answered. “Listen

to them. Anyone would think it mattered whether they had a little more

or less to eat. Dregs of society!” said the date-seller.

“Scum!” said the lady.

“And I’ve heard _that_ before, too,” said Robert.

At that moment the voice of the crowd changed, from anger to doubt,

from doubt to fear. There were other voices shouting; they shouted

defiance and menace, and they came nearer very quickly. There was the

rattle of wheels and the pounding of hoofs. A voice shouted, “Guards!”

“The Guards! The Guards!” shouted another voice, and the crowd of

workmen took up the cry. “The Guards! Pharaoh’s Guards!” And swaying a

little once more, the crowd hung for a moment as it were balanced. Then

as the trampling hoofs came nearer the workmen fled dispersed, up

alleys and into the courts of houses, and the Guards in their embossed

leather chariots swept down the street at the gallop, their wheels

clattering over the stones, and their dark-coloured, blue tunics blown

open and back with the wind of their going.

“So _that_ riot’s over,” said the crimped-linen-dressed lady; “that’s a

blessing! And did you notice the Captain of the Guard? What a very

handsome man he was, to be sure!”

The four children had taken advantage of the moment’s pause before the

crowd turned to fly, to edge themselves and drag each other into an

arched doorway.

Now they each drew a long breath and looked at the others.

“We’re well out of _that_,” said Cyril.

“Yes,” said Anthea, “but I do wish the poor men hadn’t been driven back

before they could get to the King. He might have done something for

them.”

“Not if he was the one in the Bible he wouldn’t,” said Jane. “He had a

hard heart.”

“Ah, that was the Moses one,” Anthea explained. “The Joseph one was

quite different. I should like to see Pharaoh’s house. I wonder whether

it’s like the Egyptian Court in the Crystal Palace.”

“I thought we decided to try to get taken on in a Temple,” said Cyril

in injured tones.

“Yes, but we’ve got to know someone first. Couldn’t we make friends

with a Temple doorkeeper—we might give him the padlock or something. I

wonder which are temples and which are palaces,” Robert added, glancing

across the market-place to where an enormous gateway with huge side

buildings towered towards the sky. To right and left of it were other

buildings only a little less magnificent.

“Did you wish to seek out the Temple of Amen Rā?” asked a soft voice

behind them, “or the Temple of Mut, or the Temple of Khonsu?”

They turned to find beside them a young man. He was shaved clean from

head to foot, and on his feet were light papyrus sandals. He was

clothed in a linen tunic of white, embroidered heavily in colours. He

was gay with anklets, bracelets, and armlets of gold, richly inlaid. He

wore a ring on his finger, and he had a short jacket of gold embroidery

something like the Zouave soldiers wear, and on his neck was a gold

collar with many amulets hanging from it. But among the amulets the

children could see none like theirs.

“It doesn’t matter which Temple,” said Cyril frankly.

“Tell me your mission,” said the young man. “I am a divine father of

the Temple of Amen Rā and perhaps I can help you.”

“Well,” said Cyril, “we’ve come from the great Empire on which the sun

never sets.”

“I thought somehow that you’d come from some odd, out-of-the-way spot,”

said the priest with courtesy.

“And we’ve seen a good many palaces. We thought we should like to see a

Temple, for a change,” said Robert.

The Psammead stirred uneasily in its embroidered bag.

“Have you brought gifts to the Temple?” asked the priest cautiously.

“We _have_ got some gifts,” said Cyril with equal caution. “You see

there’s magic mixed up in it. So we can’t tell you everything. But we

don’t want to give our gifts for nothing.”

“Beware how you insult the god,” said the priest sternly. “I also can

do magic. I can make a waxen image of you, and I can say words which,

as the wax image melts before the fire, will make you dwindle away and

at last perish miserably.”

“Pooh!” said Cyril stoutly, “that’s nothing. I can make _fire_ itself!”

“I should jolly well like to see you do it,” said the priest

unbelievingly.

“Well, you shall,” said Cyril, “nothing easier. Just stand close round

me.”

“Do you need no preparation—no fasting, no incantations?” The priest’s

tone was incredulous.

“The incantation’s quite short,” said Cyril, taking the hint; “and as

for fasting, it’s not needed in _my_ sort of magic. Union Jack,

Printing Press, Gunpowder, Rule Britannia! Come, Fire, at the end of

this little stick!”

He had pulled a match from his pocket, and as he ended the incantation

which contained no words that it seemed likely the Egyptian had ever

heard he stooped in the little crowd of his relations and the priest

and struck the match on his boot. He stood up, shielding the flame with

one hand.

“See?” he said, with modest pride. “Here, take it into your hand.”

“No, thank you,” said the priest, swiftly backing. “Can you do that

again?”

“Yes.”

“Then come with me to the great double house of Pharaoh. He loves good

magic, and he will raise you to honour and glory. There’s no need of

secrets between initiates,” he went on confidentially. “The fact is, I

am out of favour at present owing to a little matter of failure of

prophecy. I told him a beautiful princess would be sent to him from

Syria, and, lo! a woman thirty years old arrived. But she _was_ a

beautiful woman not so long ago. Time is only a mode of thought, you

know.”

The children thrilled to the familiar words.

“So you know that too, do you?” said Cyril.

“It is part of the mystery of all magic, is it not?” said the priest.

“Now if I bring you to Pharaoh the little unpleasantness I spoke of

will be forgotten. And I will ask Pharaoh, the Great House, Son of the

Sun, and Lord of the South and North, to decree that you shall lodge in

the Temple. Then you can have a good look round, and teach me your

magic. And I will teach you mine.”

This idea seemed good—at least it was better than any other which at

that moment occurred to anybody, so they followed the priest through

the city.

The streets were very narrow and dirty. The best houses, the priest

explained, were built within walls twenty to twenty-five feet high, and

such windows as showed in the walls were very high up. The tops of

palm-trees showed above the walls. The poor people’s houses were little

square huts with a door and two windows, and smoke coming out of a hole

in the back.

“The poor Egyptians haven’t improved so very much in their building

since the first time we came to Egypt,” whispered Cyril to Anthea.

The huts were roofed with palm branches, and everywhere there were

chickens, and goats, and little naked children kicking about in the

yellow dust. On one roof was a goat, who had climbed up and was eating

the dry palm-leaves with snorts and head-tossings of delight. Over

every house door was some sort of figure or shape.

“Amulets,” the priest explained, “to keep off the evil eye.”

“I don’t think much of your ‘nice Egypt’,” Robert whispered to Jane;

“it’s simply not a patch on Babylon.”

“Ah, you wait till you see the palace,” Jane whispered back.

The palace was indeed much more magnificent than anything they had yet

seen that day, though it would have made but a poor show beside that of

the Babylonian King. They came to it through a great square pillared

doorway of sandstone that stood in a high brick wall. The shut doors

were of massive cedar, with bronze hinges, and were studded with bronze

nails. At the side was a little door and a wicket gate, and through

this the priest led the children. He seemed to know a word that made

the sentries make way for him.

Inside was a garden, planted with hundreds of different kinds of trees

and flowering shrubs, a lake full of fish, with blue lotus flowers at

the margin, and ducks swimming about cheerfully, and looking, as Jane

said, quite modern.

“The guard-chamber, the store-houses, the queen’s house,” said the

priest, pointing them out.

They passed through open courtyards, paved with flat stones, and the

priest whispered to a guard at a great inner gate.

“We are fortunate,” he said to the children, “Pharaoh is even now in

the Court of Honour. Now, don’t forget to be overcome with respect and

admiration. It won’t do any harm if you fall flat on your faces. And

whatever you do, don’t speak until you’re spoken to.”

“There used to be that rule in our country,” said Robert, “when my

father was a little boy.”

At the outer end of the great hall a crowd of people were arguing with

and even shoving the Guards, who seemed to make it a rule not to let

anyone through unless they were bribed to do it. The children heard

several promises of the utmost richness, and wondered whether they

would ever be kept.

All round the hall were pillars of painted wood. The roof was of cedar,

gorgeously inlaid. About half-way up the hall was a wide, shallow step

that went right across the hall; then a little farther on another; and

then a steep flight of narrower steps, leading right up to the throne

on which Pharaoh sat. He sat there very splendid, his red and white

double crown on his head, and his sceptre in his hand. The throne had a

canopy of wood and wooden pillars painted in bright colours. On a low,

broad bench that ran all round the hall sat the friends, relatives, and

courtiers of the King, leaning on richly-covered cushions.

The priest led the children up the steps till they all stood before the

throne; and then, suddenly, he fell on his face with hands

outstretched. The others did the same, Anthea falling very carefully

because of the Psammead.

“Raise them,” said the voice of Pharaoh, “that they may speak to me.”

The officers of the King’s household raised them.

“Who are these strangers?” Pharaoh asked, and added very crossly, “And

what do you mean, Rekh-marā, by daring to come into my presence while

your innocence is not established?”

“Oh, great King,” said the young priest, “you are the very image of Rā,

and the likeness of his son Horus in every respect. You know the

thoughts of the hearts of the gods and of men, and you have divined

that these strangers are the children of the children of the vile and

conquered Kings of the Empire where the sun never sets. They know a

magic not known to the Egyptians. And they come with gifts in their

hands as tribute to Pharaoh, in whose heart is the wisdom of the gods,

and on his lips their truth.”

“That is all very well,” said Pharaoh, “but where are the gifts?”

The children, bowing as well as they could in their embarrassment at

finding themselves the centre of interest in a circle more grand, more

golden and more highly coloured than they could have imagined possible,

pulled out the padlock, the _Nécessaire_, and the tie-clip. “But it’s

not tribute all the same,” Cyril muttered. “England doesn’t pay

tribute!”

Pharaoh examined all the things with great interest when the chief of

the household had taken them up to him. “Deliver them to the Keeper of

the Treasury,” he said to one near him. And to the children he said—

“A small tribute, truly, but strange, and not without worth. And the

magic, O Rekh-marā?”

“These unworthy sons of a conquered nation...” began Rekh-marā.

“Nothing of the kind!” Cyril whispered angrily.

“... of a vile and conquered nation, can make fire to spring from dry

wood—in the sight of all.”

“I should jolly well like to see them do it,” said Pharaoh, just as the

priest had done.

So Cyril, without more ado, did it.

“Do more magic,” said the King, with simple appreciation.

“He cannot do any more magic,” said Anthea suddenly, and all eyes were

turned on her, “because of the voice of the free people who are

shouting for bread and onions and beer and a long mid-day rest. If the

people had what they wanted, he could do more.”

“A rude-spoken girl,” said Pharaoh. “But give the dogs what they want,”

he said, without turning his head. “Let them have their rest and their

extra rations. There are plenty of slaves to work.”

A richly-dressed official hurried out.

“You will be the idol of the people,” Rekh-marā whispered joyously;

“the Temple of Amen will not contain their offerings.”

Cyril struck another match, and all the court was overwhelmed with

delight and wonder. And when Cyril took the candle from his pocket and

lighted it with the match, and then held the burning candle up before

the King the enthusiasm knew no bounds.

“Oh, greatest of all, before whom sun and moon and stars bow down,”

said Rekh-marā insinuatingly, “am I pardoned? Is my innocence made

plain?”

“As plain as it ever will be, I daresay,” said Pharaoh shortly. “Get

along with you. You are pardoned. Go in peace.” The priest went with

lightning swiftness.

“And what,” said the King suddenly, “is it that moves in that sack?

Show me, oh strangers.”

There was nothing for it but to show the Psammead.

“Seize it,” said Pharaoh carelessly. “A very curious monkey. It will be

a nice little novelty for my wild beast collection.”

And instantly, the entreaties of the children availing as little as the

bites of the Psammead, though both bites and entreaties were fervent,

it was carried away from before their eyes.

“Oh, _do_ be careful!” cried Anthea. “At least keep it dry! Keep it in

its sacred house!”

She held up the embroidered bag.

“It’s a magic creature,” cried Robert; “it’s simply priceless!”

“You’ve no right to take it away,” cried Jane incautiously. “It’s a

shame, a barefaced robbery, that’s what it is!”

There was an awful silence. Then Pharaoh spoke.

“Take the sacred house of the beast from them,” he said, “and imprison

all. Tonight after supper it may be our pleasure to see more magic.

Guard them well, and do not torture them—yet!”

“Oh, dear!” sobbed Jane, as they were led away. “I knew exactly what it

would be! Oh, I wish you hadn’t!”

“Shut up, silly,” said Cyril. “You know you _would_ come to Egypt. It

was your own idea entirely. Shut up. It’ll be all right.”

“I thought we should play ball with queens,” sobbed Jane, “and have no

end of larks! And now everything’s going to be perfectly horrid!”

The room they were shut up in _was_ a room, and not a dungeon, as the

elder ones had feared. That, as Anthea said, was one comfort. There

were paintings on the wall that at any other time would have been most

interesting. And a sort of low couch, and chairs.

When they were alone Jane breathed a sigh of relief.

“Now we can get home all right,” she said.

“And leave the Psammead?” said Anthea reproachfully.

“Wait a sec. I’ve got an idea,” said Cyril. He pondered for a few

moments. Then he began hammering on the heavy cedar door. It opened,

and a guard put in his head.

“Stop that row,” he said sternly, “or—”

“Look here,” Cyril interrupted, “it’s very dull for you isn’t it? Just

doing nothing but guard us. Wouldn’t you like to see some magic? We’re

not too proud to do it for you. Wouldn’t you like to see it?”

“I don’t mind if I do,” said the guard.

“Well then, you get us that monkey of ours that was taken away, and

we’ll show you.”

“How do I know you’re not making game of me?” asked the soldier.

“Shouldn’t wonder if you only wanted to get the creature so as to set

it on me. I daresay its teeth and claws are poisonous.”

“Well, look here,” said Robert. “You see we’ve got nothing with us? You

just shut the door, and open it again in five minutes, and we’ll have

got a magic—oh, I don’t know—a magic flower in a pot for you.”

“If you can do that you can do anything,” said the soldier, and he went

out and barred the door.

Then, of course, they held up the Amulet. They found the East by

holding it up, and turning slowly till the Amulet began to grow big,

walked home through it, and came back with a geranium in full scarlet

flower from the staircase window of the Fitzroy Street house.

“Well!” said the soldier when he came in. “I really am—!”

“We can do much more wonderful things than that—oh, ever so much,” said

Anthea persuasively, “if we only have our monkey. And here’s twopence

for yourself.”

The soldier looked at the twopence.

“What’s this?” he said.

Robert explained how much simpler it was to pay money for things than

to exchange them as the people were doing in the market. Later on the

soldier gave the coins to his captain, who, later still, showed them to

Pharaoh, who of course kept them and was much struck with the idea.

That was really how coins first came to be used in Egypt. You will not

believe this, I daresay, but really, if you believe the rest of the

story, I don’t see why you shouldn’t believe this as well.

“I say,” said Anthea, struck by a sudden thought, “I suppose it’ll be

all right about those workmen? The King won’t go back on what he said

about them just because he’s angry with us?”

“Oh, no,” said the soldier, “you see, he’s rather afraid of magic.

He’ll keep to his word right enough.”

“Then _that’s_ all right,” said Robert; and Anthea said softly and

coaxingly—

“Ah, _do_ get us the monkey, and then you’ll see some lovely magic.

Do—there’s a nice, kind soldier.”

“I don’t know where they’ve put your precious monkey, but if I can get

another chap to take on my duty here I’ll see what I can do,” he said

grudgingly, and went out.

“Do you mean,” said Robert, “that we’re going off without even _trying_

for the other half of the Amulet?”

“I really think we’d better,” said Anthea tremulously.

“Of course the other half of the Amulet’s here somewhere or our half

wouldn’t have brought us here. I do wish we could find it. It is a pity

we don’t know any _real_ magic. Then we could find out. I do wonder

where it is—exactly.”

If they had only known it, something very like the other half of the

Amulet was very near them. It hung round the neck of someone, and that

someone was watching them through a chink, high up in the wall,

specially devised for watching people who were imprisoned. But they did

not know.

There was nearly an hour of anxious waiting. They tried to take an

interest in the picture on the wall, a picture of harpers playing very

odd harps and women dancing at a feast. They examined the painted

plaster floor, and the chairs were of white painted wood with coloured

stripes at intervals.

But the time went slowly, and everyone had time to think of how Pharaoh

had said, “Don’t torture them—_yet_.”

“If the worst comes to the worst,” said Cyril, “we must just bunk, and

leave the Psammead. I believe it can take care of itself well enough.

They won’t kill it or hurt it when they find it can speak and give

wishes. They’ll build it a temple, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“I couldn’t bear to go without it,” said Anthea, “and Pharaoh said

‘After supper’, that won’t be just yet. And the soldier _was_ curious.

I’m sure we’re all right for the present.”

All the same, the sounds of the door being unbarred seemed one of the

prettiest sounds possible.

“Suppose he hasn’t got the Psammead?” whispered Jane.

But that doubt was set at rest by the Psammead itself; for almost

before the door was open it sprang through the chink of it into

Anthea’s arms, shivering and hunching up its fur.

“Here’s its fancy overcoat,” said the soldier, holding out the bag,

into which the Psammead immediately crept.

“Now,” said Cyril, “what would you like us to do? Anything you’d like

us to get for you?”

“Any little trick you like,” said the soldier. “If you can get a

strange flower blooming in an earthenware vase you can get anything, I

suppose,” he said. “I just wish I’d got two men’s loads of jewels from

the King’s treasury. That’s what I’ve always wished for.”

At the word “_wish_” the children knew that the Psammead would attend

to _that_ bit of magic. It did, and the floor was littered with a

spreading heap of gold and precious stones.

“Any other little trick?” asked Cyril loftily. “Shall we become

invisible? Vanish?”

“Yes, if you like,” said the soldier; “but not through the door, you

don’t.”

He closed it carefully and set his broad Egyptian back against it.

“No! no!” cried a voice high up among the tops of the tall wooden

pillars that stood against the wall. There was a sound of someone

moving above.

The soldier was as much surprised as anybody.

“That’s magic, if you like,” he said.

And then Jane held up the Amulet, uttering the word of Power. At the

sound of it and at the sight of the Amulet growing into the great arch

the soldier fell flat on his face among the jewels with a cry of awe

and terror.

The children went through the arch with a quickness born of long

practice. But Jane stayed in the middle of the arch and looked back.

The others, standing on the dining-room carpet in Fitzroy Street,

turned and saw her still in the arch. “Someone’s holding her,” cried

Cyril. “We must go back.”

But they pulled at Jane’s hands just to see if she would come, and, of

course, she did come.

Then, as usual, the arch was little again and there they all were.

“Oh, I do wish you hadn’t!” Jane said crossly. “It _was_ so

interesting. The priest had come in and he was kicking the soldier, and

telling him he’d done it now, and they must take the jewels and flee

for their lives.”

“And did they?”

“I don’t know. You interfered,” said Jane ungratefully. “I _should_

have liked to see the last of it.”

As a matter of fact, none of them had seen the last of it—if by “it”

Jane meant the adventure of the Priest and the Soldier.