“Here,” said Anthea, “this is for you. That is to show we will not hurt you. And if you take it I shall know that you won’t hurt us.” The girl held out her hand. Anthea slid the bangle over it, and the girl’s face lighted up with the joy of possession. “Come,” she said, looking lovingly at the bangle; “it is peace between your house and mine.” She picked up her fish and pitcher and led the way up the narrow path by which she had come and the others followed. “This is something like!” said Cyril, trying to be brave. “Yes!” said Robert, also assuming a boldness he was far from feeling, “this really and truly _is_ an adventure! Its being in the Past makes it quite different from the Phœnix and Carpet happenings.” The belt of thick-growing acacia trees and shrubs—mostly prickly and unpleasant-looking—seemed about half a mile across. The path was narrow and the wood dark. At last, ahead, daylight shone through the boughs and leaves. The whole party suddenly came out of the wood’s shadow into the glare of the sunlight that shone on a great stretch of yellow sand, dotted with heaps of grey rocks where spiky cactus plants showed gaudy crimson and pink flowers among their shabby, sand-peppered leaves. Away to the right was something that looked like a grey-brown hedge, and from beyond it blue smoke went up to the bluer sky. And over all the sun shone till you could hardly bear your clothes. “That is where I live,” said the girl pointing. “I won’t go,” whispered Jane into the basket, “unless you say it’s all right.” The Psammead ought to have been touched by this proof of confidence. Perhaps, however, it looked upon it as a proof of doubt, for it merely snarled— “If you don’t go now I’ll never help you again.” “_Oh_,” whispered Anthea, “dear Jane, don’t! Think of Father and Mother and all of us getting our heart’s desire. And we can go back any minute. Come on!” “Besides,” said Cyril, in a low voice, “the Psammead must know there’s no danger or it wouldn’t go. It’s not so over and above brave itself. Come on!” This Jane at last consented to do. As they got nearer to the browny fence they saw that it was a great hedge about eight feet high, made of piled-up thorn bushes. “What’s that for?” asked Cyril. “To keep out foes and wild beasts,” said the girl. “I should think it ought to, too,” said he. “Why, some of the thorns are as long as my foot.” There was an opening in the hedge, and they followed the girl through it. A little way further on was another hedge, not so high, also of dry thorn bushes, very prickly and spiteful-looking, and within this was a sort of village of huts. There were no gardens and no roads. Just huts built of wood and twigs and clay, and roofed with great palm-leaves, dumped down anywhere. The doors of these houses were very low, like the doors of dog-kennels. The ground between them was not paths or streets, but just yellow sand trampled very hard and smooth.