Butthelightgrewstronger。Itwasgreeny，likeglow—worms’
lamps，anditgrewandgrewtillitwasasthoughthousandsandthousandsofglow—wormsweresignallingtotheirwingedsweetheartsfromthemiddleofthecircle。Andthevoicegrew，notsomuchinloudnessasinsweetness（thoughitgrewlouder，too），tillitwassosweetthatyouwantedtocrywithpleasurejustatthesoundofit。Itwaslikenightingales，andthesea，andthefiddle，andthevoiceofyourmotherwhenyouhavebeenalongtimeaway，andshemeetsyouatthedoorwhenyougethome。
Andthevoicesaid——
’Speak。Whatisitthatyouwouldhear？’
Icannottellyouwhatlanguagethevoiceused。Ionlyknowthateveryonepresentunderstooditperfectly。Ifyoucometothinkofit，theremustbesomelanguagethateveryonecouldunderstand，ifweonlyknewwhatitwas。NorcanItellyouhowthecharmspoke，norwhetheritwasthecharmthatspoke，orsomepresenceinthecharm。Thechildrencouldnothavetoldyoueither。Indeed，theycouldnotlookatthecharmwhileitwasspeaking，becausethelightwastoobright。TheylookedinsteadatthegreenradianceonthefadedKidderminstercarpetattheedgeofthecircle。Theyallfeltveryquiet，andnotinclinedtoaskquestionsorfidgetwiththeirfeet。ForthiswasnotlikethethingsthathadhappenedinthecountrywhenthePsammeadhadgiventhemtheirwishes。Thathadbeenfunnysomehow，andthiswasnot。ItwassomethinglikeArabianNightsmagic，andsomethinglikebeinginchurch。Noonecaredtospeak。