“Oh, yes; you know everything,” Robert replied. “What’s all that grey-green stuff you see away over there, where it’s all flat and sandy?” “All right,” said Cyril loftily, “_I_ don’t want to tell you anything. I only thought you’d like to know a palm-tree when you saw it again.” “Look!” cried Anthea; “they’re opening the gates.” And indeed the great gates swung back with a brazen clang, and instantly a little crowd of a dozen or more people came out and along the road towards them. The children, with one accord, crouched behind the tamarisk hedge. “I don’t like the sound of those gates,” said Jane. “Fancy being inside when they shut. You’d never get out.” “You’ve got an arch of your own to go out by,” the Psammead put its head out of the basket to remind her. “Don’t behave so like a girl. If I were you I should just march right into the town and ask to see the king.” There was something at once simple and grand about this idea, and it pleased everyone. So when the work-people had passed (they _were_ work-people, the children felt sure, because they were dressed so plainly—just one long blue shirt thing—of blue or yellow) the four children marched boldly up to the brazen gate between the towers. The arch above the gate was quite a tunnel, the walls were so thick. “Courage,” said Cyril. “Step out. It’s no use trying to sneak past. Be bold!” Robert answered this appeal by unexpectedly bursting into “The British Grenadiers”, and to its quick-step they approached the gates of Babylon. “Some talk of Alexander, And some of Hercules, Of Hector and Lysander, And such great names as these. But of all the gallant heroes...” This brought them to the threshold of the gate, and two men in bright armour suddenly barred their way with crossed spears. “Who goes there?” they said. (I think I must have explained to you before how it was that the children were always able to understand the language of any place they might happen to be in, and to be themselves understood. If not, I have no time to explain it now.) “We come from very far,” said Cyril mechanically. “From the Empire where the sun never sets, and we want to see your King.” “If it’s quite convenient,” amended Anthea. “The King (may he live for ever!),” said the gatekeeper, “is gone to fetch home his fourteenth wife. Where on earth have you come from not to know that?” “The Queen then,” said Anthea hurriedly, and not taking any notice of the question as to where they had come from. “The Queen,” said the gatekeeper, “(may she live for ever!) gives audience today three hours after sunrising.” “But what are we to do till the end of the three hours?” asked Cyril. The gatekeeper seemed neither to know nor to care. He appeared less interested in them than they could have thought possible. But the man who had crossed spears with him to bar the children’s way was more human.