Twelve thousand swords flashed in air and wavered a little like reeds in the breeze, then steadied themselves, and the shout went up from twelve thousand throats:
“Ave Caesar!”
And without haste and without delay the Romans filed through the ruins to the marble-covered book, and two by two entered it and disappeared. Each as he passed the mighty conqueror saluted him with proud mute reverence.
When the last soldier was hidden in the book, Caesar looked round him, a little wistfully.
“I must speak to him; I must,” Lucy cried; “I must. Oh, what a darling he is!”
She ran down the steps from the gallery and straight to Caesar. He smiled when she reached him, and gently pinched her ear. Fancy going through the rest of your life hearing all the voices of the world through an ear that has been pinched by Caesar!
“Oh, thank you! thank you!” said Philip; “how splendid you are. I’ll swot up my Latin like anything next term, so as to read about you.”
“Are they all in?” Lucy asked. “I do hope nobody was hurt.”
Caesar smiled.
“A most unreasonable wish, my child, after a great battle!” he said. “But for once the unreasonable is the inevitable. Nobody was hurt. You see it was necessary to get every man back into the book just as he left it, or what would the schoolmasters have done? There remain now only my own guard who have in charge the false woman who let loose the barbarians. And here they come.”
Surrounded by a guard with drawn swords the Pretenderette advanced slowly.
“Hail, woman!” said Caesar.
“Hail, whoever you are!” said the Pretenderette very sulkily.
“I hail,” said Caesar, “your courage.”
Philip and Lucy looked at each other. Yes, the Pretenderette had courage: they had not thought of that before. All the attempts she had made against them—she alone in a strange land—yes, these needed courage.
“And I demand to know how you came here?”
“When I found he’d been at his building again,” she said, pointing a contemptuous thumb at Philip, “I was just going to pull it down, and I knocked down a brick or two with my sleeve, and not thinking what I was doing I built them up again; and then I got a bit giddy and the whole thing seemed to begin to grow—candlesticks and bricks and dominoes and everything, bigger and bigger and bigger, and I looked in. It was as big as a church by this time, and I saw that boy losing his way among the candlestick pillars, and I followed him and I listened. And I thought I could be as good a Deliverer as anybody else. And the motor veil that I was going to catch the 2:37 train in was a fine disguise.”
“You tried to injure the children,” Caesar reminded her.
“I don’t want to say anything to make you let me off,” said the Pretenderette, “but at the beginning I didn’t think any of it was real. I thought it was a dream. You can let your evil passions go in a dream and it don’t hurt anyone.”
“It hurts you,” Caesar said.
“Oh! that’s no odds,” said the Pretenderette scornfully.
“You sought to injure and confound the children at every turn,” said Caesar, “even when you found that things were real.”
“I saw there was a chance of being Queen,” said the Pretenderette, “and I took it. Seems to me you’ve no occasion to talk if you’re Julius Caesar, the same as the bust in the library. You took what you could get right enough in your time, when all’s said and done.”
“I hail,” said Caesar again, “your courage.”
“You needn’t trouble,” she said, tossing her head; “my game’s up now, and I’ll speak my mind if I die for it. You don’t understand. You’ve never been a servant, to see other people get all the fat and you all the bones. What do you think it’s like to know if you’d just been born in a gentleman’s mansion instead of in a model workman’s dwelling you’d have been brought up as a young lady and had the openwork silk stockings and the lace on your under-petticoats.”
“You go too deep for me,” said Caesar, with the ghost of a smile. “I now pronounce your sentence. But life has pronounced on you a sentence worse than any I can give you. Nobody loves you.”
“Oh, you old silly,” said the Pretenderette in a burst of angry tears, “don’t you see that’s just why everything’s happened?”
“You are condemned,” said Caesar calmly, “to make yourself beloved. You will be taken to Briskford, where you will teach the Great Sloth to like his work and keep him awake for eight play-hours a day. In the intervals of your toil you must try to get fond of someone. The Halma people are kind and gentle. You will not find them hard to love. And when the Great Sloth loves his work and the Halma people are so fond of you that they feel they cannot bear to lose you, your penance will be over and you can go where you will.”
“You know well enough,” said the Pretenderette, still tearful and furious, “that if that ever happened I shouldn’t want to go anywhere else.”
“Yes,” said Caesar slowly, “I know.”
Lucy would have liked to kiss the Pretenderette and say she was sorry, but you can’t do that when it is all other people’s fault and they aren’t sorry. And besides, before all these people, it would have looked like showing off. You know, I am sure, exactly how Lucy felt.
The Pretenderette was led away. And now Caesar stood facing the children, his hands held out in farewell. The growing light of early morning transfigured his face, and to Philip it
