The Amulet was thereâ€”little and complete in janeâ€™s hand, and there were the other children and the Psammead, and the learned gentleman. But Rekh-maraâ€”or the body of Rekh-maraâ€”was not there any more. As for his soul...
â€˜No go,â€™ said the Psammead. â€˜Itâ€™s just the same as your wishing yourself if you get some one else to wish for you. It wonâ€™t act.â€™
The children had hardly time to be glad of this before a shower of javelins came hurtling over the great thorn-hedge, and everyone sheltered behind the huts. But next moment another shower of weapons came from the opposite side, and the crowd rushed to other shelter. Cyril pulled out a javelin that had stuck in the roof of the hut beside him. Its head was of brightly burnished copper.
They stood there on the pavement, a cause of some inconvenience to the passersby, and thus beguiled the time with conversation. Cyril was leaning his elbow on the top of a hutch that had seemed empty when they had inspected the whole edifice of hutches one by one, and he was trying to reawaken the interest of a hedgehog that had curled itself into a ball earlier in the interview, when a small, soft voice just below his elbow said, quietly, plainly and quite unmistakablyâ€”not in any squeak or whine that had to be translatedâ€”but in downright common Englishâ€”