All night the terrible noise went on, but when the sun rose, as abruptly as he had set, the sound suddenly ceased. The children had hardly time to be glad of this before a shower of javelins came hurtling over the great thorn-hedge, and everyone sheltered behind the huts. But next moment another shower of weapons came from the opposite side, and the crowd rushed to other shelter. Cyril pulled out a javelin that had stuck in the roof of the hut beside him. Its head was of brightly burnished copper. Then the sound of shouting arose again and the crackle of dried thorns. The enemy was breaking down the hedge. All the villagers swarmed to the point whence the crackling and the shouting came; they hurled stones over the hedges, and short arrows with flint heads. The children had never before seen men with the fighting light in their eyes. It was very strange and terrible, and gave you a queer thick feeling in your throat; it was quite different from the pictures of fights in the illustrated papers at home. It seemed that the shower of stones had driven back the besiegers. The besieged drew breath, but at that moment the shouting and the crackling arose on the opposite side of the village and the crowd hastened to defend that point, and so the fight swayed to and fro across the village, for the besieged had not the sense to divide their forces as their enemies had done. Cyril noticed that every now and then certain of the fighting-men would enter the maze, and come out with brighter faces, a braver aspect, and a more upright carriage. “I believe they go and touch the Amulet,” he said. “You know the Psammead said it could make people brave.” They crept through the maze, and watching they saw that Cyril was right. A headman was standing in front of the skin curtain, and as the warriors came before him he murmured a word they could not hear, and touched their foreheads with something that they could not see. And this something he held in his hands. And through his fingers they saw the gleam of a red stone that they knew. The fight raged across the thorn-hedge outside. Suddenly there was a loud and bitter cry. “They’re in! They’re in! The hedge is down!” The headman disappeared behind the deer-skin curtain. “He’s gone to hide it,” said Anthea. “Oh, Psammead dear, how could you leave us!” Suddenly there was a shriek from inside the hut, and the headman staggered out white with fear and fled out through the maze. The children were as white as he. “Oh! What is it? What is it?” moaned Anthea. “Oh, Psammead, how could you! How could you!” And the sound of the fight sank breathlessly, and swelled fiercely all around. It was like the rising and falling of the waves of the sea. Anthea shuddered and said again, “Oh, Psammead, Psammead!” “Well?” said a brisk voice, and the curtain of skins was lifted at one corner by a furry hand, and out peeped the bat’s ears and snail’s eyes of the Psammead.