'Nonsense,' said the Psammead; 'what's that?'

'Oh, THAT!' said Cyril, 'it's not reading. It looks like
pictures of chickens and snakes and things.'

This was what was on the charm: [Hieroglyphics omitted.]

'I've no patience with you,' said the Psammead; 'if you can't
read you must find some one who can. A priest now?'

'We don't know any priests,' said Anthea; 'we know a
clergyman--he's called a priest in the prayer-book, you know--but
he only knows Greek and Latin and Hebrew, and this isn't any of
those--I know.'

The Psammead stamped a furry foot angrily.

'I wish I'd never seen you,' it said; 'you aren't any more good
than so many stone images. Not so much, if I'm to tell the
truth. Is there no wise man in your Babylon who can pronounce
the names of the Great Ones?'

'There's a poor learned gentleman upstairs,' said Anthea, 'we
might try him. He has a lot of stone images in his room, and
iron-looking ones too--we peeped in once when he was out. Old
Nurse says he doesn't eat enough to keep a canary alive. He
spends it all on stones and things.'

'Try him,' said the Psammead, 'only be careful. If he knows a