But the light grew stronger. It was greeny, like glow-worms’ lamps, and it grew and grew till it was as though thousands and thousands of glow-worms were signalling to their winged sweethearts from the middle of the circle. And the voice grew, not so much in loudness as in sweetness (though it grew louder, too), till it was so sweet that you wanted to cry with pleasure just at the sound of it. It was like nightingales, and the sea, and the fiddle, and the voice of your mother when you have been a long time away, and she meets you at the door when you get home. And the voice said— “Speak. What is it that you would hear?” I cannot tell you what language the voice used. I only know that everyone present understood it perfectly. If you come to think of it, there must be some language that everyone could understand, if we only knew what it was. Nor can I tell you how the charm spoke, nor whether it was the charm that spoke, or some presence in the charm. The children could not have told you either. Indeed, they could not look at the charm while it was speaking, because the light was too bright. They looked instead at the green radiance on the faded Kidderminster carpet at the edge of the circle. They all felt very quiet, and not inclined to ask questions or fidget with their feet. For this was not like the things that had happened in the country when the Psammead had given them their wishes. That had been funny somehow, and this was not. It was something like _Arabian Nights_ magic, and something like being in church. No one cared to speak. It was Cyril who said at last— “Please we want to know where the other half of the charm is.” “The part of the Amulet which is lost,” said the beautiful voice, “was broken and ground into the dust of the shrine that held it. It and the pin that joined the two halves are themselves dust, and the dust is scattered over many lands and sunk in many seas.” “Oh, I say!” murmured Robert, and a blank silence fell. “Then it’s all up?” said Cyril at last; “it’s no use our looking for a thing that’s smashed into dust, and the dust scattered all over the place.” “If you would find it,” said the voice, “You must seek it where it still is, perfect as ever.” “I don’t understand,” said Cyril. “In the Past you may find it,” said the voice. “I wish we _may_ find it,” said Cyril. The Psammead whispered crossly, “Don’t you understand? The thing existed in the Past. If you were in the Past, too, you could find it. It’s very difficult to make you understand things. Time and space are only forms of thought.” “I see,” said Cyril. “No, you don’t,” said the Psammead, “and it doesn’t matter if you don’t, either. What I mean is that if you were only made the right way, you could see everything happening in the same place at the same time. Now do you see?” “I’m afraid _I_ don’t,” said Anthea; “I’m sorry I’m so stupid.”