“Go to sleep,” said the gaoler, pointing to a heap of straw in a corner; “tomorrow comes soon enough.” “Oh, dear Mr Gaoler,” said Anthea, “whatever will they do to us tomorrow?” “They’ll try to make you tell things,” said the gaoler grimly, “and my advice is if you’ve nothing to tell, make up something. Then perhaps they’ll sell you to the Northern nations. Regular savages _they_ are. Good night.” “Good night,” said three trembling voices, which their owners strove in vain to render firm. Then he went out, and the three were left alone in the damp, dim vault. “I know the light won’t last long,” said Cyril, looking at the flickering brazier. “Is it any good, do you think, calling on the name when we haven’t got the charm?” suggested Anthea. “I shouldn’t think so. But we might try.” So they tried. But the blank silence of the damp dungeon remained unchanged. “What was the name the Queen said?” asked Cyril suddenly. “Nisbeth—Nesbit—something? You know, the slave of the great names?” “Wait a sec,” said Robert, “though I don’t know why you want it. Nusroch—Nisrock—Nisroch—that’s it.” Then Anthea pulled herself together. All her muscles tightened, and the muscles of her mind and soul, if you can call them that, tightened too. “UR HEKAU SETCHEH,” she cried in a fervent voice. “Oh, Nisroch, servant of the Great Ones, come and help us!” There was a waiting silence. Then a cold, blue light awoke in the corner where the straw was—and in the light they saw coming towards them a strange and terrible figure. I won’t try to describe it, because the drawing shows it, exactly as it was, and exactly as the old Babylonians carved it on their stones, so that you can see it in our own British Museum at this day. I will just say that it had eagle’s wings and an eagle’s head and the body of a man. It came towards them, strong and unspeakably horrible. “Oh, go away,” cried Anthea; but Cyril cried, “No; stay!” The creature hesitated, then bowed low before them on the damp floor of the dungeon. “Speak,” it said, in a harsh, grating voice like large rusty keys being turned in locks. “The servant of the Great Ones is _your_ servant. What is your need that you call on the name of Nisroch?” “We want to go home,” said Robert. “No, no,” cried Anthea; “we want to be where Jane is.” Nisroch raised his great arm and pointed at the wall of the dungeon. And, as he pointed, the wall disappeared, and instead of the damp, green, rocky surface, there shone and glowed a room with rich hangings of red silk embroidered with golden water-lilies, with cushioned couches and great mirrors of polished steel; and in it was the Queen, and before her, on a red pillow, sat the Psammead, its fur hunched up in an irritated, discontented way. On a blue-covered couch lay Jane fast asleep. “Walk forward without fear,” said Nisroch. “Is there aught else that the Servant of the great Name can do for those who speak that name?”