“No,” said Anthea, on the instant, and added rather rashly, “We don’t swear in England, except in police courts, where the guards are, you know, and you don’t want to go there. But when we say we’ll do a thing—it’s the same as an oath to us—we do it. You trust us, and we’ll trust you.” She began to unbind his legs, and the boys hastened to untie his arms.
When he was free he stood up, stretched his arms, and laughed.
“Now,” he said, “I am stronger than you and my oath is void. I have sworn by nothing, and my oath is nothing likewise. For there is no secret, sacred name under the altar of Amen-Rā.”
“Oh, yes there is!” said a voice from under the bed. Everyone started—Rekh-marā most of all.
Cyril stooped and pulled out the bath of sand where the Psammead slept.
“You don’t know everything, though you are a Divine Father of the Temple of Amen,” said the Psammead shaking itself till the sand fell tinkling on the bath edge. “There is a secret, sacred name beneath the altar of Amen-Rā. Shall I call on that name?”
“No, no!” cried the Priest in terror. “No,” said Jane, too. “Don’t let’s have any calling names.”
“Besides,” said Rekh-marā, who had turned very white indeed under his natural brownness, “I was only going to say that though there isn’t any name under—”
“There is,” said the Psammead threateningly.
“Well, even if there wasn’t, I will be bound by the wordless oath of your strangely upright land, and having said that I will be your friend—I will be it.”
“Then that’s all right,” said the Psammead; “and there’s the tea-bell. What are you going to do with your distinguished partner? He can’t go down to tea like that, you know.”
“You see we can’t do anything till the 3rd of December,” said Anthea, “that’s when we are to find the whole charm. What can we do with Rekh-marā till then?”
“Box-room,” said Cyril briefly, “and smuggle up his meals. It will be rather fun.”
“Like a fleeing Cavalier concealed from exasperated Roundheads,” said Robert. “Yes.”
So Rekh-marā was taken up to the box-room and made as comfortable as possible in a snug nook between an old nursery fender and the wreck of a big four-poster. They gave him a big ragbag to sit on, and an old, moth-eaten fur coat off the nail on the door to keep him warm. And when they had had their own tea they took him some. He did not like the tea at all, but he liked the bread and butter, and cake that went with it. They took it in turns to sit with him during the evening, and left him fairly happy and quite settled for the night.
But when they went up in the morning with a kipper, a quarter of which each of them had gone without at breakfast, Rekh-marā was gone! There was the cosy corner with the ragbag, and the moth-eaten fur coat—but the cosy corner was empty.
“Good riddance!” was naturally the first delightful thought in each mind. The second was less pleasing, because everyone at once remembered that since his Amulet had been swallowed up by theirs—which hung once more round the neck of Jane—he could have no possible means of returning to his Egyptian past. Therefore he must be still in England, and probably somewhere quite near them, plotting mischief.
The attic was searched, to prevent mistakes, but quite vainly.
“The best thing we can do,” said Cyril, “is to go through the half Amulet straight away, get the whole Amulet, and come back.”
“I don’t know,” Anthea hesitated. “Would that be quite fair? Perhaps he isn’t really a base deceiver. Perhaps something’s happened to him.”
“Happened?” said Cyril, “not it! Besides, what could happen?”
“I don’t know,” said Anthea. “Perhaps burglars came in the night, and accidentally killed him, and took away the—all that was mortal of him, you know—to avoid discovery.”
“Or perhaps,” said Cyril, “they hid the—all that was mortal, in one of those big trunks in the box-room. Shall we go back and look?” he added grimly.
“No, no!” Jane shuddered. “Let’s go and tell the Psammead and see what it says.”
“No,” said Anthea, “let’s ask the learned gentleman. If anything has happened to Rekh-marā a gentleman’s advice would be more useful than a Psammead’s. And the learned gentleman’ll only think it’s a dream, like he always does.”
They tapped at the door, and on the “Come in” entered. The learned gentleman was sitting in front of his untasted breakfast. Opposite him, in the easy chair, sat Rekh-marā!
“Hush!” said the learned gentleman very earnestly, “please, hush! or the dream will go. I am learning … Oh, what have I not learned in the last hour!”
“In the grey dawn,” said the Priest, “I left my hiding-place, and finding myself among these treasures from my own country, I remained. I feel more at home here somehow.”
“Of course I know it’s a dream,” said the learned gentleman feverishly, “but, oh, ye gods! what a dream! By Jove! …”
“Call not upon the gods,” said the Priest, “lest ye raise greater ones than ye can control. Already,” he explained to the children, “he and I are as brothers, and his welfare is dear to me as my own.”
“He has told me,” the learned gentleman began, but Robert interrupted. This was no moment for manners.
“Have you told him,” he asked the Priest, “all about the Amulet?”
“No,” said Rekh-marā.
“Then tell him now. He is very learned. Perhaps he can tell us what to do.”
Rekh-marā hesitated, then told—and, oddly enough, none of the children ever could remember afterwards what it was that he did tell. Perhaps he used some magic to prevent their remembering.
When he had done the learned gentleman was silent, leaning his elbow on the table and his head on his hand.
“Dear Jimmy,” said Anthea gently, “don’t worry about it. We are sure to find it today, somehow.”
“Yes,” said Rekh-marā, “and perhaps, with it, Death.”
“It’s to bring us our hearts’ desire,” said Robert.
“Who knows,”
