oor 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 we're bound to wake up
all right and safe.'

'Humph,' said Cyril bitterly. And Robert suddenly said--

'It's all my doing. If it really IS all up do please not keep a down on
me about it, and tell Father--Oh, I forgot.'

What he had forgotten was that his father was 3,000 miles and 5,000 or
more years away from him.

'All right, Bobs, old man,' said Cyril; and Anthea got hold of Robert's
hand and squeezed it.

Then the gaoler came back with a platter of hard, flat cakes made of
coarse grain, very different from the cream-and-juicy-date feasts of the
palace; also a pitcher of water.

'There,' he said.

'Oh, thank you so very much. You ARE kind,' said Anthea feverishly.

'Go to sleep,' said the gaoler, pointing to a heap of straw in a corner;
'tomorrow comes soon enough.'

'Oh, dear Mr Gaoler,' said Anthea, 'whatever will they do to us
tomorrow?'

'They'll try to make you tell things,' said the gaoler grimly, 'and my
advice is if you've nothing to tell, make up something. Then perhaps
they'll sell you to the Northern nations. Regular savages THEY are. Good
night.'

'Good night,' said th