“Look here,” she said in her kind little voice, “we want to be friends. We want to help you. Let’s make a treaty. Let’s join together to _get_ the Amulet—the whole one, I mean. And then it shall belong to you as much as to us, and we shall all get our hearts’ desire.” “Fair words,” said the Priest, “grow no onions.” “_We_ say, ‘Butter no parsnips’,” Jane put in. “But don’t you see we _want_ to be fair? Only we want to bind you in the chains of honour and upright dealing.” “Will you deal fairly by us?” said Robert. “I will,” said the Priest. “By the sacred, secret name that is written under the Altar of Amen-Rā, I will deal fairly by you. Will you, too, take the oath of honourable partnership?” “No,” said Anthea, on the instant, and added rather rashly, “We don’t swear in England, except in police courts, where the guards are, you know, and you don’t want to go there. But when we _say_ we’ll do a thing—it’s the same as an oath to us—we do it. You trust us, and we’ll trust you.” She began to unbind his legs, and the boys hastened to untie his arms. When he was free he stood up, stretched his arms, and laughed. “Now,” he said, “I am stronger than you and my oath is void. I have sworn by nothing, and my oath is nothing likewise. For there _is_ no secret, sacred name under the altar of Amen-Rā.” “Oh, yes there is!” said a voice from under the bed. Everyone started—Rekh-marā most of all. Cyril stooped and pulled out the bath of sand where the Psammead slept. “You don’t know everything, though you _are_ a Divine Father of the Temple of Amen,” said the Psammead shaking itself till the sand fell tinkling on the bath edge. “There _is_ a secret, sacred name beneath the altar of Amen-Rā. Shall I call on that name?” “No, no!” cried the Priest in terror. “No,” said Jane, too. “Don’t let’s have any calling names.” “Besides,” said Rekh-marā, who had turned very white indeed under his natural brownness, “I was only going to say that though there isn’t any name under—” “There _is_,” said the Psammead threateningly. “Well, even if there _wasn’t_, I will be bound by the wordless oath of your strangely upright land, and having said that I will be your friend—I will be it.” “Then that’s all right,” said the Psammead; “and there’s the tea-bell. What are you going to do with your distinguished partner? He can’t go down to tea like that, you know.” “You see we can’t do anything till the 3rd of December,” said Anthea, “that’s when we are to find the whole charm. What can we do with Rekh-marā till then?” “Box-room,” said Cyril briefly, “and smuggle up his meals. It will be rather fun.” “Like a fleeing Cavalier concealed from exasperated Roundheads,” said Robert. “Yes.”