The Story of the Amulet - E. Nesbit (smart books to read TXT) 📗

playing off and on all the time, and their music reminded Anthea of the band she and the others had once had on the fifth of November⁠—with penny horns, a tin whistle, a tea-tray, the tongs, a policeman’s rattle, and a toy drum. They had enjoyed this band very much at the time. But it was quite different when someone else was making the same kind of music. Anthea understood now that Father had not been really heartless and unreasonable when he had told them to stop that infuriating din.

“What shall we sing?” Cyril was asking.

“Sweet and Low?” suggested Anthea.

“Too soft⁠—I vote for ‘Who Will O’er the Downs.’ Now then⁠—one, two, three.

“Oh, who will o’er the downs so free,
Oh, who will with me ride,
Oh, who will up and follow me,
To win a blooming bride?

Her father he has locked the door,
Her mother keeps the key;
But neither bolt nor bar shall keep
My own true love from me.”

Jane, the alto, was missing, and Robert, unlike the mother of the lady in the song, never could “keep the key,” but the song, even so, was sufficiently unlike anything any of them had ever heard to rouse the Babylonian Court to the wildest enthusiasm.

“More, more,” cried the King; “by my beard, this savage music is a new thing. Sing again!”

So they sang:

“I saw her bower at twilight gray,
’Twas guarded safe and sure.
I saw her bower at break of day,
’Twas guarded then no more.

The varlets they were all asleep,
And there was none to see
The greeting fair that passed there
Between my love and me.”

Shouts of applause greeted the ending of the verse, and the King would not be satisfied till they had sung all their part-songs (they only knew three) twice over, and ended up with “Men of Harlech” in unison. Then the King stood up in his royal robes with his high, narrow crown on his head and shouted⁠—

“By the beak of Nisroch, ask what you will, strangers from the land where the sun never sets!”

“We ought to say it’s enough honour, like the dancer did,” whispered Anthea.

“No, let’s ask for It,” said Robert.

“No, no, I’m sure the other’s manners,” said Anthea. But Robert, who was excited by the music, and the flaring torches, and the applause and the opportunity, spoke up before the others could stop him.

“Give us the half of the Amulet that has on it the name Ur Hekau Setcheh,” he said, adding as an afterthought, “O King, live-forever.”

As he spoke the great name those in the pillared hall fell on their faces, and lay still. All but the Queen who crouched amid her cushions with her head in her hands, and the King, who stood upright, perfectly still, like the statue of a king in stone. It was only for a moment though. Then his great voice thundered out⁠—

“Guard, seize them!”

Instantly, from nowhere as it seemed, sprang eight soldiers in bright armour inlaid with gold, and tunics of red and white. Very splendid they were, and very alarming.

“Impious and sacrilegious wretches!” shouted the King. “To the dungeons with them! We will find a way, tomorrow, to make them speak. For without doubt they can tell us where to find the lost half of It.”

A wall of scarlet and white and steel and gold closed up round the children and hurried them away among the many pillars of the great hall. As they went they heard the voices of the courtiers loud in horror.

“You’ve done it this time,” said Cyril with extreme bitterness.

“Oh, it will come right. It must. It always does,” said Anthea desperately.

They could not see where they were going, because the guard surrounded them so closely, but the ground under their feet, smooth marble at first, grew rougher like stone, then it was loose earth and sand, and they felt the night air. Then there was more stone, and steps down.

“It’s my belief we really are going to the deepest dungeon below the castle moat this time,” said Cyril.

And they were. At least it was not below a moat, but below the river Euphrates, which was just as bad if not worse. In a most unpleasant place it was. Dark, very, very damp, and with an odd, musty smell rather like the shells of oysters. There was a torch⁠—that is to say, a copper basket on a high stick with oiled wood burning in it. By its light the children saw that the walls were green, and that trickles of water ran down them and dripped from the roof. There were things on the floor that looked like newts, and in the dark corners creepy, shiny things moved sluggishly, uneasily, horribly.

Robert’s heart sank right into those really reliable boots of his. Anthea and Cyril each had a private struggle with that inside disagreeableness which is part of all of us, and which is sometimes called the Old Adam⁠—and both were victors. Neither of them said to Robert (and both tried hard not even to think it), “This is your doing.” Anthea had the additional temptation to add, “I told you so.” And she resisted it successfully.

“Sacrilege, and impious cheek,” said the captain of the guard to the gaoler. “To be kept during the King’s pleasure. I expect he means to get some pleasure out of them tomorrow! He’ll tickle them up!”

“Poor little kids,” said the gaoler.

“Oh, yes,” said the captain. “I’ve got kids of my own too. But it doesn’t do to let domestic sentiment interfere with one’s public duties. Good night.”

The soldiers tramped heavily off in their white and red and steel and gold. The gaoler, with a bunch of big keys in his hand, stood looking pityingly at the children. He shook his head twice and went out.

“Courage!” said Anthea. “I know it will be all right. It’s only a dream really, you know. It must be! I don’t believe about time being only a something or other of thought. It is a dream, and