“I wish we hadn’t come,” she said; and the others could not but feel that there was something in what she said. They comforted her and themselves as best they could by expressing a curious half-certainty which they had that everything would be all right in the end. As I said before, there are some things so horrible that if you can bring yourself to face them you see at once that they can’t be true. The barest idea of poetic justice—which we all believe in at the bottom of our hearts—made it impossible to think that the children who had nobly (they couldn’t help feeling it was noble) defended their friends, the Mer Folk, should have anything really dreadful happen to them in consequence. And when Bernard talked about the fortunes of war he did it in an unconvinced sort of way and Francis told him to shut up.
In the net.
“But what are we to do,” sniffed Cathay for the twentieth time, and all the while the Infantryman was going steadily on, dragging the wretched netful after him.
“Press our pearl buttons,” suggested Francis hopefully. “Then we shall be invisible and unfeelable and we can escape.” He fumbled with the round marble-like pearl.
“No, no,” said Bernard, catching at his hand, “don’t you see? If we do, we may never get out of the net. If they can’t see us or feel us they’ll think the net’s empty, and perhaps hang it up on a hook or put it away in a box.”
“And forget it while years roll by. I see,” said Cathay.
“But we can undo them the minute we’re there. Can’t we?” said Mavis.
“Yes, of course,” said Bernard; but as a matter of fact they couldn’t.
At last the Infantryman, after threading his way through streets of enormous rocky palaces, passed through a colossal arch, and so into a hall as big as St. Paul’s and Westminster Abbey into one.