The Greatest Works of E. Nesbit (220+ Titles in One Illustrated Edition). Эдит Несбит

      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 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 three thousand miles and five thousand 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 three trembling voices, which their owners strove in vain to render firm. Then he went out, and the three were left alone in the damp, dim vault.

      ‘I know the light won’t last long,’ said Cyril, looking at the flickering brazier.

      ‘Is it any good, do you think, calling on the name when we haven’t got the charm?’ suggested Anthea.

      ‘I shouldn’t think so. But we might try.’

      So they tried. But the blank silence of the damp dungeon remained unchanged.

      ‘What was the name the Queen said?’ asked Cyril suddenly. ‘Nisbeth – Nesbit – something? You know, the slave of the great names?’

      ‘Wait a sec,’ said Robert, ‘though I don’t know why you want it. Nusroch – Nisrock – Nisroch – That’s it.’

      Then Anthea pulled herself together. All her muscles tightened, and the muscles of her mind and soul, if you can call them that, tightened too.

      ‘UR-HEKAU SETCHEH,’ she cried in a fervent voice. ‘Oh, Nisroch, servant of the Great Ones, come and help us!’

      There was a waiting silence. Then a cold, blue light awoke in the corner where the straw was – and in the light they saw coming towards them a strange and terrible figure. I won’t try to describe it, because Mr. Millar will draw it for you, exactly as it was, and exactly as the old Babylonians carved it on their stones, so that you can see it in our own British Museum at this day. I will just say that it had eagle’s wings and an eagle’s head and the body of a man.

      It came towards them, strong and unspeakably horrible.

      ‘Oh, go away,’ cried Anthea; but Cyril cried, ‘No; stay!’

      The creature hesitated, then bowed low before them on the damp floor of the dungeon.

      ‘Speak,’ it said, in a harsh, grating voice like large rusty keys being turned in locks. ‘the servant of the Great Ones is your servant. What is your need that you call on the name of Nisroch?’

      ‘We want to go home,’ said Robert.

      ‘No, no,’ cried Anthea; ‘we want to be where Jane is.’