“Retire, slaves!” it said.
“What’s she a saying of?” cried a dozen voices.
“Some blamed foreign lingo,” one voice replied.
The children rushed to the door. A crowd was on the road and pavement.
In the middle of the crowd, plainly to be seen from the top of the steps, were the beautiful face and bright veil of the Babylonian Queen.
“Jimminy!” cried Robert, and ran down the steps, “here she is!”
“Here!” he cried, “look out—let the lady pass. She’s a friend of ours, coming to see us.”
“Nice friend for a respectable house,” snorted a fat woman with marrows on a handcart.
All the same the crowd made way a little. The Queen met Robert on the pavement, and Cyril joined them, the Psammead bag still on his arm.
“Here,” he whispered; “here’s the Psammead; you can get wishes.”