He told them what they ought to say, and the five people from Fitzroy Street took hands and went forward. The golden gates slowly opened.
“We are the children of the Sun,” said Cyril, as he had been told, “and our High Priest, at least that’s what the Captain calls him. We have a different name for him at home.”
“What is his name?” asked a white-robed man who stood in the doorway with his arms extended.
“Ji-jimmy,” replied Cyril, and he hesitated as Anthea had done. It really did seem to be taking a great liberty with so learned a gentleman. “And we have come to speak with your Kings in the Temple of Poseidon—does that word sound right?” he whispered anxiously.
“Quite,” said the learned gentleman. “It’s very odd I can understand what you say to them, but not what they say to you.”
“The Queen of Babylon found that too,” said Cyril; “it’s part of the magic.”
“Oh, what a dream!” said the learned gentleman.
The white-robed priest had been joined by others, and all were bowing low.
“Enter,” he said, “enter, Children of the Sun, with your High Ji-jimmy.”
In an inner courtyard stood the Temple—all of silver, with gold pinnacles and doors, and twenty enormous statues in bright gold of men and women. Also an immense pillar of the other precious yellow metal.