CHAPTER TWELVE SORCERY AND SUDDEN VENGEANCE

MEANWHILE Trumpkin and the two boys arrived at the dark little stone archway which led into the inside of the Mound，and two sentinel badgers (the white patches on their cheeks were all Edmund could see of them) leaped up with bared teeth and asked them in snarling voices，“Who goes there？”

“Trumpkin，”said the Dwarf．“Bringing the High King of Narnia out of the far past．”

The badgers nosed at the boys’ hands．“At last，”they said.“At last．”

“Give us a light，friends，”said Trumpkin．

The badgers found a torch just inside the arch and Peter lit it and handed it to Trumpkin．“The D．L．F．had better lead，”he said.“We don’t know our way about this place．”

Trumpkin took the torch and went ahead into the dark tunnel．It was a cold，black，musty place，with an occasional bat fluttering in the torchlight，and plenty of cobwebs．The boys，who had been mostly in the open air since that morning at the railway station，felt as if they were going into a trap or a prison．

“I say，Peter，”whispered Edmund．“Look at those carvings on the walls．Don’t they look old？ And yet we’re older than that．When we were last here，they hadn’t been made．”

“Yes，”said Peter．“That makes one think．”

The Dwarf went on ahead and then turned to the right，and then to the left，and then down some steps，and then to the left again．Then at last they saw a light ahead-light from under a door．And now for the first time they heard voices，for they had come to the door of the central chamber．The voices inside were angry ones．Someone was talking so loudly that the approach of the boys and the Dwarf had not been heard．

“Don’t like the sound of that，”whispered Trumpkin to Peter.“Let’s listen for a moment．”All three stood perfectly still on the outside of the door．

“You know well enough，”said a voice (“That’s the King，”whispered Trumpkin)，“why the Horn was not blown at sunrise this morning．Have you forgotten that Miraz fell upon us almost before Trumpkin had gone，and we were fighting for our lives for the space of three hours and more？ I blew it when first I had a breathing space．”

“I’m not likely to forget it，”came the angry voice，“when my Dwarfs bore the brunt of the attack and one in five of them fell．”(“That’s Nikabrik，”whispered Trumpkin．)

“For shame，Dwarf，”came a thick voice (“Trufflehunter’s，”said Trumpkin)．“We all did as much as the Dwarfs and none more than the King．”

“Tell that tale your own way for all I care，”answered Nikabrik.“

But whether it was that the Horn was blown too late，or whether there was no magic in it，no help has come．You，you great clerk，you master magician，you know-all; are you still asking us to hang our hopes on Aslan and King Peter and all the rest of it？”

“I must confess—I cannot deny it—that I am deeply disappointed in the result of the operation，”came the answer.(“That’ll be Doctor Cornelius，”said Trumpkin．)

“To speak plainly，”said Nikabrik，“your wallet’s empty，your eggs addled，your fish uncaught，your promises broken．Stand aside then and let others work．And that is why—”

“The help will come，”said Trufflehunter．“I stand by Aslan．Have patience，like us beasts．The help will come．It may be even now at the door．”

“Pah！”snarled Nikabrik．“You badgers would have us wait till the sky falls and we can all catch larks．I tell you we can’t wait．Food is running short; we lose more than we can afford at every encounter; our followers are slipping away．”

“And why？”asked Trufflehunter．“I’ll tell you why．Because it is noised among them that we have called on the Kings of old and the Kings of old have not answered．The last words Trumpkin spoke before he went (and went，most likely，to his death) were，If you must blow the Horn，do not let the army know why you blow it or what you hope from it．But that same evening everyone seemed to know．”