“When shall we get to the Tin Isles?” asked Jane.
“Oh—six months, perhaps, or a year,” said the Egyptian cheerfully.
“A _year_ of this?” cried Jane, and Cyril, who was still feeling far too unwell to care about breakfast, hugged himself miserably and shuddered.
“Look here, we can shorten that year. Jane, out with the Amulet! Wish that we were where the Amulet will be when the ship is twenty miles from the Tin Island. That’ll give us time to mature our plans.”
It was done—the work of a moment—and there they were on the same ship, between grey northern sky and grey northern sea. The sun was setting in a pale yellow line. It was the same ship, but it was changed, and so were the crew. Weather-worn and dirty were the sailors, and their clothes torn and ragged. And the children saw that, of course, though they had skipped the nine months, the ship had had to live through them. Pheles looked thinner, and his face was rugged and anxious.
“Ha!” he cried, “the charm has brought you back! I have prayed to it daily these nine months—and now you are here? Have you no magic that can help?”
“What is your need?” asked the Egyptian quietly.
“I need a great wave that shall whelm away the foreign ship that follows us. A month ago it lay in wait for us, by the pillars of the gods, and it follows, follows, to find out the secret of Tyre—the place of the Tin Islands. If I could steer by night I could escape them yet, but tonight there will be no stars.”
“My magic will not serve you here,” said the Egyptian.
But Robert said, “My magic will not bring up great waves, but I can show you how to steer without stars.”
He took out the shilling compass, still, fortunately, in working order, that he had bought off another boy at school for fivepence, a piece of indiarubber, a strip of whalebone, and half a stick of red sealing-wax.
And he showed Pheles how it worked. And Pheles wondered at the compass’s magic truth.
“I will give it to you,” Robert said, “in return for that charm about your neck.”
Pheles made no answer. He first laughed, snatched the compass from Robert’s hand, and turned away still laughing.
“Be comforted,” the Priest whispered, “our time will come.”
The dusk deepened, and Pheles, crouched beside a dim lantern, steered by the shilling compass from the Crystal Palace.