“They’ll try to make you tell things,” said the gaoler grimly, “and my advice is if you’ve nothing to tell, make up something. Then perhaps they’ll sell you to the Northern nations. Regular savages they are. Good night.”
“Good night,” said three trembling voices, which their owners strove in vain to render firm. Then he went out, and the three were left alone in the damp, dim vault.
“I know the light won’t last long,” said Cyril, looking at the flickering brazier.
“Is it any good, do you think, calling on the name when we haven’t got the charm?” suggested Anthea.
“I shouldn’t think so. But we might try.”
So they tried. But the blank silence of the damp dungeon remained unchanged.
“What was the name the Queen said?” asked Cyril suddenly. “Nisbeth—Nesbit—something? You know, the slave of the great names?”
“Wait a sec,” said Robert, “though I don’t know why you want it. Nusroch—Nisrock—Nisroch—that’s it.”
Then Anthea pulled herself together. All her muscles tightened, and the muscles of her mind and soul, if you can call them that, tightened too.
“UR HEKAU SETCHEH,” she cried in a fervent voice. “Oh, Nisroch, servant of the Great Ones, come and help us!”