“Don’t choke me,” said the Psammead, “come inside.”
The inside of the hut was pitch dark.
“I’ve got a match,” said Cyril, and struck it. The floor of the hut was of soft, loose sand.
“I’ve been asleep here,” said the Psammead; “most comfortable it’s been, the best sand I’ve had for a month. It’s all right. Everything’s all right. I knew your only chance would be while the fight was going on. That man won’t come back. I bit him, and he thinks I’m an Evil Spirit. Now you’ve only got to take the thing and go.”
The hut was hung with skins. Heaped in the middle were the offerings that had been given the night before, Anthea’s roses fading on the top of the heap. At one side of the hut stood a large square stone block, and on it an oblong box of earthenware with strange figures of men and beasts on it.
“Is the thing in there?” asked Cyril, as the Psammead pointed a skinny finger at it.
“You must judge of that,” said the Psammead. “The man was just going to bury the box in the sand when I jumped out at him and bit him.”
“Light another match, Robert,” said Anthea. “Now, then quick! which is the East?”
“Why, where the sun rises, of course!”
“But someone told us—”