“Courage!” said Anthea. “I know it will be all right. It’s only a dream really, you know. It must be! I don’t believe about time being only a something or other of thought. It is a dream, and we’re bound to wake up all right and safe.”
“Humph,” said Cyril bitterly. And Robert suddenly said—
“It’s all my doing. If it really is all up do please not keep a down on me about it, and tell Father—Oh, I forgot.”
What he had forgotten was that his father was 3,000 miles and 5,000 or more years away from him.
“All right, Bobs, old man,” said Cyril; and Anthea got hold of Robert’s hand and squeezed it.
Then the gaoler came back with a platter of hard, flat cakes made of coarse grain, very different from the cream-and-juicy-date feasts of the palace; also a pitcher of water.
“There,” he said.
“Oh, thank you so very much. You are kind,” said Anthea feverishly.
“Go to sleep,” said the gaoler, pointing to a heap of straw in a corner; “tomorrow comes soon enough.”
“Oh, dear Mr Gaoler,” said Anthea, “whatever will they do to us tomorrow?”