By the time he had drawn his hand out of the owl's
nest--there were no eggs there--the carpet had sunk eight feet
below him.
'Jump, you silly cuckoo!' cried Cyril, with brotherly anxiety.
But Robert couldn't turn round all in a minute into a jumping
position. He wriggled and twisted and got on to the broad ledge,
and by the time he was ready to jump the walls of the tower had
risen up thirty feet above the others, who were still sinking with
the carpet, and Robert found himself in the embrasure of a window;
alone, for even the owls were not at home that day. The wall was
smoothish; there was no climbing up, and as for climbing
down--Robert hid his face in his hands, and squirmed back and back
from the giddy verge, until the back part of him was wedged quite
tight in the narrowest part of the window slit.
He was safe now, of course, but the outside part of his window was
like a frame to a picture of part of the other side of the tower.
It was very pretty, with moss growing between the stones and little
shiny gems; but between him and it there was the width of the
tower, and nothing in it but empty air. The situation was
terrible. Robert saw in a flash that the carpet was likely to
bring them into just the same sort of tight places that they used
to get into with the wishes the Psammead granted them.
Pages:
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54