“Nonsense,” said the Psammead; “what’s that?”
“Oh, that!” said Cyril, “it’s not reading. It looks like pictures of chickens and snakes and things.”
This was what was on the charm:
“I’ve no patience with you,” said the Psammead; “if you can’t read you must find some one who can. A priest now?”
“We don’t know any priests,” said Anthea; “we know a clergyman—he’s called a priest in the prayer-book, you know—but he only knows Greek and Latin and Hebrew, and this isn’t any of those—I know.”
The Psammead stamped a furry foot angrily.
“I wish I’d never seen you,” it said; “you aren’t any more good than so many stone images. Not so much, if I’m to tell the truth. Is there no wise man in your Babylon who can pronounce the names of the Great Ones?”
“There’s a poor learned gentleman upstairs,” said Anthea, “we might try him. He has a lot of stone images in his room, and iron-looking ones too—we peeped in once when he was out. Old Nurse says he doesn’t eat enough to keep a canary alive. He spends it all on stones and things.”
“Try him,” said the Psammead, “only be careful. If he knows a greater name than this and uses it against you, your charm will be of no use. Bind him first with the chains of honour and upright dealing. And then ask his aid—oh, yes, you’d better all go; you can put me to sand as you go upstairs. I must have a few minutes’ peace and quietness.”