“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.”