So they washed up the breakfast things in warm water obligingly provided by the camel.
“And now,” said the parrot, “we must pack up and go on our way to destroy the fear of the Dwellers by the Sea.”
“I wonder,” Brenda said to Max in an undertone, “I wonder whether it wouldn’t be best for dear little dogs to lose themselves? We could turn up later, and be so very glad to be found.”
“But why?” Max asked.
“I’ve noticed,” said Brenda, sidling up to him with eager affectionateness, “that wherever there’s fear there’s something to be afraid of, even if it’s only your fancy. It would be dreadful for dear little dogs to be afraid, Max, wouldn’t it? So undignified.”
“My dear,” said Max heavily, “I could give seven noble reasons for being faithful to our master. But I will only give you one. There is nothing to eat in the desert, and nothing to drink.”
“You always were so noble, dearest,” said Brenda; “so different from poor little me. I’ve only my affectionate nature. I know I’m only a silly little thing.”
So when the camel lurched forward and the parrot took wing, the dogs followed closely.
“Dear faithful things,” said Lucy. “Brenda! Max! Nice dogs!”
And the dogs politely responding, bounded enthusiastically.
The journey was not long. Quite soon they found a sort of ravine or gully in the cliff, and a path that led through it. And then they were on the beach, very pebbly with small stones, and there was the home of the Dwellers by the Sea; and beyond it, broad and blue and beautiful, the sea by which they dwelt.
The Dwelling seemed to be a sort of town of rounded buildings more like limekilns than anything else, with arched doors leading to dark insides. They were all built of tiny stones, such as lay on the beach. Beyond the huts or houses towered the castle, a vast rough structure with towers and arches and buttresses and bastions and glacis and bridges and a great moat all round it.
“But I never built a city like that, did you?” Lucy asked as they drew near.
“No,” Philip answered; “at least—do you know, I do believe it’s the sand castle Helen and I built last summer at Dymchurch. And those huts are the moulds I made of my pail—with the edges worn off, you know.”
Towards the castle the travellers advanced, the camel lurching like a boat on a rough sea, and the dogs going with catlike delicacy over the stones. They skirted large pools and tall rocks seaweed covered. Along a road broad enough for twelve chariots to have driven on it abreast, slowly they came to the great gate of the castle. And as they got nearer, they saw at every window heads leaning out; every battlement, every terrace, was crowded with figures. And when they were quite near, by throwing their heads very far back, so that their necks felt quite stiff for quite a long time afterwards, the children could see that all those people seemed quite young, and seemed to have very odd and delightful clothes—just a garment from shoulder to knee made, as it seemed, of dark fur.
“What lots of them there are,” said Philip; “where did they come from?”
“Out of a book,” said the parrot; “but the authorities were very prompt that time. Only a line and a half got out.
“Happy troops
Of gentle islanders.
“Those are the islanders.”
“Then why,” asked Philip naturally, “aren’t they on an island?”
“There’s only one island, and no one is allowed on that except two people who never go there. But the islanders are happy even if they don’t live on an island—always happy, except for the great fear.”
Here the travellers began to cross one of the bridges across the moat, the bridge, in fact, which led to the biggest arch of all. It was a very rough arch, like the entrance to a cave.
And from out its dark mouth came a little crowd of people.
“They’re savages,” said Lucy, shrinking till she seemed only an extra hump on the camel’s back.
They were indeed of a dark complexion, sunburnt in fact, but their faces were handsome and kindly. They waved friendly hands and smiled in the most agreeable and welcoming way.
The tallest islander stepped out from the crowd. He was about as big as Philip.
“They’re not savages,” said Philip; “don’t be a donkey. They’re just children.”
“Hush!” said the parrot; “the Lord High Islander is now about to begin the state address of welcome!”
He was. And this was the address.
“How jolly of you to come. Do get down off that camel and come indoors and have some grub. Jim, you might take that camel round to the stable and rub him down a bit. You’d like to keep the dogs with you, of course. And what about the parrot?”
“Thanks awfully,” Philip responded, and slid off the camel, followed by Lucy; “the parrot will make his own mind up—he always does.”
They all trooped into the hall of the castle which was more like a cave than a hall and very dark, for the windows were little and high up. As Lucy’s eyes got used to the light she perceived that the clothes of the islanders were not of skins but of seaweed.
“I asked you in,” said the Lord High Islander, a jolly-looking boy of about Philip’s age, “out of politeness. But really it isn’t dinner time, and the meet is in half an hour. So, unless you’re really hungry—?”
The children said “Not at all!”
“You hunt, of course?” the Lord High Islander said; “it’s really the only sport we get here, except fishing. Of course we play games and all that. I do hope you won’t be dull.”
“We came here on business,” the parrot remarked—and the happy islanders crowded round to see him, remarking—“these are Philip and Lucy, claimants
