The E. Nesbit MEGAPACK ®: 26 Classic Novels and Stories. E. Nesbit
patchwork of gold and gay colours. It reminded him of the fancy-dress party he had once been to with Helen, when he wore a Pierrot’s dress and felt very silly in it. He noticed that not a single boy in all that crowd was dressed as he was—in what he thought was the only correct dress for boys. Lucy walked beside him. Once, just after they started, she said, “Aren’t you frightened, Philip?” and he would not answer, though he longed to say, “Of course not. It’s only girls who are afraid.” But he thought it would be more disagreeable to say nothing, so he said it.
When they got to the Hall of Justice, she caught hold of his hand, and said:
“Oh!” very loud and sudden, “doesn’t it remind you of anything?” she asked.
Philip pulled his hand away and said “No” before he remembered that he had decided not to speak to her. And the “No” was quite untrue, for the building did remind him of something, though he couldn’t have told you what.
The prisoners and their guard passed through a great arch between magnificent silver pillars, and along a vast corridor, lined with soldiers who all saluted.
“Do all sorts of soldiers salute you?” he asked the captain, “or only just your own ones?”
“It’s you they’re saluting,” the captain said; “our laws tell us to salute all prisoners out of respect for their misfortunes.”
The judge sat on a high bronze throne with colossal bronze dragons on each side of it, and wide shallow steps of ivory, black and white.
Two attendants spread a round mat on the top of the steps in front of the judge—a yellow mat it was, and very thick, and he stood up and saluted the prisoners. (“Because of your misfortunes,” the captain whispered.)
The judge wore a bright yellow robe with a green girdle, and he had no wig, but a very odd-shaped hat, which he kept on all the time.
The trial did not last long, and the captain said very little, and the judge still less, while the prisoners were not allowed to speak at all. The judge looked up something in a book, and consulted in a low voice with the crown lawyer and a sour-faced person in black. Then he put on his spectacles and said:
“Prisoners at the bar, you are found guilty of trespass. The punishment is Death—if the judge does not like the prisoners. If he does not dislike them it is imprisonment for life, or until the judge has had time to think it over. Remove the prisoners.”
“Oh, don’t!” cried Philip, almost weeping.
“I thought you weren’t afraid,” whispered Lucy.
“Silence in court,” said the judge.
Then Philip and Lucy were removed.
They were marched by streets quite different from those they had come by, and at last in the corner of a square they came to a large house that was quite black.
“Here we are,” said the captain kindly. “Good-bye. Better luck next time.”
The gaoler, a gentleman in black velvet, with a ruff and a pointed beard, came out and welcomed them cordially.
“How do you do, my dears?” he said. “I hope you’ll be comfortable here. First-class misdemeanants, I suppose?” he asked.
“Of course,” said the captain.
“Top floor, if you please,” said the gaoler politely, and stood back to let the children pass. “Turn to the left and up the stairs.”
The stairs were dark and went on and on, and round and round, and up and up. At the very top was a big room, simply furnished with a table, chairs, and a rocking-horse. Who wants more furniture than that?
“You’ve got the best view in the whole city,” said the gaoler, “and you’ll be company for me. What? They gave me the post of gaoler because it’s nice, light, gentlemanly work, and leaves me time for my writing. I’m a literary man, you know. But I’ve sometimes found it a trifle lonely. You’re the first prisoners I’ve ever had, you see. If you’ll excuse me I’ll go and order some dinner for you. You’ll be contented with the feast of reason and the flow of soul, I feel certain.”
The moment the door had closed on the gaoler’s black back Philip turned on Lucy.
“I hope you’re satisfied,” he said bitterly. “This is all your doing. They’d have let me off if you hadn’t been here. What on earth did you want to come here for? Why did you come running after me like that? You know I don’t like you?”
“You’re the hatefullest, disagreeablest, horridest boy in all the world,” said Lucy firmly—“there!”
Philip had not expected this. He met it as well as he could.
“I’m not a little sneak of a white mouse squeezing in where I’m not wanted, anyhow,” he said.
And then they stood looking at each other, breathing quickly, both of them.
“I’d rather be a white mouse than a cruel bully,” said Lucy at last.
“I’m not a bully,” said Philip.
Then there was another silence. Lucy sniffed. Philip looked round the bare room, and suddenly it came to him that he and Lucy were companions in misfortune, no matter whose fault it was that they were imprisoned. So he said:
“Look here, I don’t like you and I shan’t pretend I do. But I’ll call it Pax for the present if you like. We’ve got to escape from this place somehow, and I’ll help you if you like, and you may help me if you can.”
“Thank you,” said Lucy, in a tone which might have meant anything.
“So we’ll call it Pax and see if we can escape by the window. There might be ivy—or a faithful page with a rope ladder. Have you a page at the Grange?”
“There’s two stable-boys,” said Lucy, “but I don’t think they’re faithful, and I say, I think all this is much more magic than you think.”
“Of course I know it’s magic,” said he impatiently; “but it’s quite real too.”
“Oh, it’s real enough,” said she.
They leaned out of the window. Alas, there was no ivy. Their window was very high up, and the wall outside, when they touched it with their hand, felt smooth as glass.
“That’s no go,” said he, and the two leaned still farther out of the window looking down on the town. There were strong towers and fine minarets and palaces, the palm trees and fountains and gardens. A white building across the square looked strangely familiar. Could it be like St. Paul’s which Philip had been taken to see when he was very little, and which he had never been able to remember? No, he could not remember it even now. The two prisoners looked out in a long silence. Far below lay the city, its trees softly waving in the breeze, flowers shining in a bright many-coloured patchwork, the canals that intersected the big squares gleamed in the sunlight, and crossing and recrossing the squares and streets were the people of the town, coming and going about their business.
“Look here!” said Lucy suddenly, “do you mean to say you don’t know?”
“Know what?” he asked impatiently.
“Where we are. What it is. Don’t you?”
“No. No more do you.”
“Haven’t you seen it all before?”
“No, of course I haven’t. No more have you.”
“All right. I have seen it before though,” said Lucy, “and so have you. But I shan’t tell you what it is unless you’ll be nice to me.” Her tone was a little sad, but quite firm.
“I am nice to you. I told you it was Pax,” said Philip. “Tell me what you think it is.”
“I don’t mean that sort of grandish standoffish Pax, but real Pax. Oh, don’t