“We’re not,” said Jane with angry eagerness; “we’re not barbarians at all. We come from the country where the sun never sets, and we’ve read about you in books; and our country’s full of fine things—St Paul’s, and the Tower of London, and Madame Tussaud’s Exhibition, and—” Then the others stopped her. “Don’t talk nonsense,” said Robert in a bitter undertone. Caesar looked at the children a moment in silence. Then he called a soldier and spoke with him apart. Then he said aloud— “You three elder children may go where you will within the camp. Few children are privileged to see the camp of Caesar. The student and the smaller girl-child will remain here with me.” Nobody liked this; but when Caesar said a thing that thing was so, and there was an end to it. So the three went. Left alone with Jane and the learned gentleman, the great Roman found it easy enough to turn them inside out. But it was not easy, even for him, to make head or tail of the insides of their minds when he had got at them. The learned gentleman insisted that the whole thing was a dream, and refused to talk much, on the ground that if he did he would wake up. Jane, closely questioned, was full of information about railways, electric lights, balloons, men-of-war, cannons, and dynamite. “And do they fight with swords?” asked the General. “Yes, swords and guns and cannons.” Caesar wanted to know what guns were. “You fire them,” said Jane, “and they go bang, and people fall down dead.” “But what are guns like?” Jane found them hard to describe. “But Robert has a toy one in his pocket,” she said. So the others were recalled. The boys explained the pistol to Caesar very fully, and he looked at it with the greatest interest. It was a two-shilling pistol, the one that had done such good service in the old Egyptian village. “I shall cause guns to be made,” said Caesar, “and you will be detained till I know whether you have spoken the truth. I had just decided that Britain was not worth the bother of invading. But what you tell me decides me that it is very much worth while.” “But it’s all nonsense,” said Anthea. “Britain is just a savage sort of island—all fogs and trees and big rivers. But the people are kind. We know a little girl there named Imogen. And it’s no use your making guns because you can’t fire them without gunpowder, and that won’t be invented for hundreds of years, and we don’t know how to make it, and we can’t tell you. Do go straight home, dear Caesar, and let poor little Britain alone.” “But this other girl-child says—” said Caesar. “All Jane’s been telling you is what it’s going to be,” Anthea interrupted, “hundreds and hundreds of years from now.” “The little one is a prophetess, eh?” said Caesar, with a whimsical look. “Rather young for the business, isn’t she?” “You can call her a prophetess if you like,” said Cyril, “but what Anthea says is true.” “Anthea?” said Caesar. “That’s a Greek name.”