“You haven’t said the word of power,” said Anthea. Jane hastily said it—and still nothing happened. “Hold it up towards the East, you silly!” said Robert. “Which _is_ the East?” said Jane, dancing about in her agony of terror. Nobody knew. So they opened the fish-bag to ask the Psammead. And the bag had only a waterproof sheet in it. The Psammead was gone. “Hide the sacred thing! Hide it! Hide it!” whispered the girl. Cyril shrugged his shoulders, and tried to look as brave as he knew he ought to feel. “Hide it up, Pussy,” he said. “We are in for it now. We’ve just got to stay and see it out.” CHAPTER V. THE FIGHT IN THE VILLAGE Here was a horrible position! Four English children, whose proper date was A.D. 1905, and whose proper address was London, set down in Egypt in the year 6000 B.C. with no means whatever of getting back into their own time and place. They could not find the East, and the sun was of no use at the moment, because some officious person had once explained to Cyril that the sun did not really set in the West at all—nor rise in the East either, for the matter of that. The Psammead had crept out of the bass-bag when they were not looking and had basely deserted them. An enemy was approaching. There would be a fight. People get killed in fights, and the idea of taking part in a fight was one that did not appeal to the children. The man who had brought the news of the enemy still lay panting on the sand. His tongue was hanging out, long and red, like a dog’s. The people of the village were hurriedly filling the gaps in the fence with thorn-bushes from the heap that seemed to have been piled there ready for just such a need. They lifted the cluster-thorns with long poles—much as men at home, nowadays, lift hay with a fork. Jane bit her lip and tried to decide not to cry. Robert felt in his pocket for a toy pistol and loaded it with a pink paper cap. It was his only weapon. Cyril tightened his belt two holes. And Anthea absently took the drooping red roses from the buttonholes of the others, bit the ends of the stalks, and set them in a pot of water that stood in the shadow by a hut door. She was always rather silly about flowers. “Look here!” she said. “I think perhaps the Psammead is really arranging something for us. I don’t believe it would go away and leave us all alone in the Past. I’m certain it wouldn’t.” Jane succeeded in deciding not to cry—at any rate yet. “But what can we do?” Robert asked. “Nothing,” Cyril answered promptly, “except keep our eyes and ears open. Look! That runner chap’s getting his wind. Let’s go and hear what he’s got to say.” The runner had risen to his knees and was sitting back on his heels. Now he stood up and spoke. He began by some respectful remarks addressed to the heads of the village. His speech got more interesting when he said—