“Yes, but we’ve got to know someone first. Couldn’t we make friends with a Temple doorkeeper—we might give him the padlock or something. I wonder which are temples and which are palaces,” Robert added, glancing across the market-place to where an enormous gateway with huge side buildings towered towards the sky. To right and left of it were other buildings only a little less magnificent. “Did you wish to seek out the Temple of Amen Rā?” asked a soft voice behind them, “or the Temple of Mut, or the Temple of Khonsu?” They turned to find beside them a young man. He was shaved clean from head to foot, and on his feet were light papyrus sandals. He was clothed in a linen tunic of white, embroidered heavily in colours. He was gay with anklets, bracelets, and armlets of gold, richly inlaid. He wore a ring on his finger, and he had a short jacket of gold embroidery something like the Zouave soldiers wear, and on his neck was a gold collar with many amulets hanging from it. But among the amulets the children could see none like theirs. “It doesn’t matter which Temple,” said Cyril frankly. “Tell me your mission,” said the young man. “I am a divine father of the Temple of Amen Rā and perhaps I can help you.” “Well,” said Cyril, “we’ve come from the great Empire on which the sun never sets.” “I thought somehow that you’d come from some odd, out-of-the-way spot,” said the priest with courtesy. “And we’ve seen a good many palaces. We thought we should like to see a Temple, for a change,” said Robert. The Psammead stirred uneasily in its embroidered bag. “Have you brought gifts to the Temple?” asked the priest cautiously. “We _have_ got some gifts,” said Cyril with equal caution. “You see there’s magic mixed up in it. So we can’t tell you everything. But we don’t want to give our gifts for nothing.” “Beware how you insult the god,” said the priest sternly. “I also can do magic. I can make a waxen image of you, and I can say words which, as the wax image melts before the fire, will make you dwindle away and at last perish miserably.” “Pooh!” said Cyril stoutly, “that’s nothing. I can make _fire_ itself!” “I should jolly well like to see you do it,” said the priest unbelievingly. “Well, you shall,” said Cyril, “nothing easier. Just stand close round me.” “Do you need no preparation—no fasting, no incantations?” The priest’s tone was incredulous. “The incantation’s quite short,” said Cyril, taking the hint; “and as for fasting, it’s not needed in _my_ sort of magic. Union Jack, Printing Press, Gunpowder, Rule Britannia! Come, Fire, at the end of this little stick!” He had pulled a match from his pocket, and as he ended the incantation which contained no words that it seemed likely the Egyptian had ever heard he stooped in the little crowd of his relations and the priest and struck the match on his boot. He stood up, shielding the flame with one hand. “See?” he said, with modest pride. “Here, take it into your hand.”