They could not see where they were going, because the guard surrounded them so closely, but the ground under their feet, smooth marble at first, grew rougher like stone, then it was loose earth and sand, and they felt the night air. Then there was more stone, and steps down. “It’s my belief we really _are_ going to the deepest dungeon below the castle moat this time,” said Cyril. And they were. At least it was not below a moat, but below the river Euphrates, which was just as bad if not worse. In a most unpleasant place it was. Dark, very, very damp, and with an odd, musty smell rather like the shells of oysters. There was a torch—that is to say, a copper basket on a high stick with oiled wood burning in it. By its light the children saw that the walls were green, and that trickles of water ran down them and dripped from the roof. There were things on the floor that looked like newts, and in the dark corners creepy, shiny things moved sluggishly, uneasily, horribly. Robert’s heart sank right into those really reliable boots of his. Anthea and Cyril each had a private struggle with that inside disagreeableness which is part of all of us, and which is sometimes called the Old Adam—and both were victors. Neither of them said to Robert (and both tried hard not even to think it), “This is _your_ doing.” Anthea had the additional temptation to add, “I told you so.” And she resisted it successfully. “Sacrilege, and impious cheek,” said the captain of the guard to the gaoler. “To be kept during the King’s pleasure. I expect he means to get some pleasure out of them tomorrow! He’ll tickle them up!” “Poor little kids,” said the gaoler. “Oh, yes,” said the captain. “I’ve got kids of my own too. But it doesn’t do to let domestic sentiment interfere with one’s public duties. Good night.” The soldiers tramped heavily off in their white and red and steel and gold. The gaoler, with a bunch of big keys in his hand, stood looking pityingly at the children. He shook his head twice and went out. “Courage!” said Anthea. “I know it will be all right. It’s only a dream _really_, you know. It _must_ be! I don’t believe about time being only a something or other of thought. It _is_ a dream, and we’re bound to wake up all right and safe.” “Humph,” said Cyril bitterly. And Robert suddenly said— “It’s all my doing. If it really is all up do please not keep a down on me about it, and tell Father—Oh, I forgot.” What he had forgotten was that his father was 3,000 miles and 5,000 or more years away from him. “All right, Bobs, old man,” said Cyril; and Anthea got hold of Robert’s hand and squeezed it. Then the gaoler came back with a platter of hard, flat cakes made of coarse grain, very different from the cream-and-juicy-date feasts of the palace; also a pitcher of water. “There,” he said. “Oh, thank you so very much. You _are_ kind,” said Anthea feverishly.