“The very thing,” said the Princess joyously; “for you possess the only weapon that can be used against these people or against the authors who created them. If you can truthfully say to them, ‘I never heard of you,’ your words become a deadly sword that strikes at their most sensitive spot.” “What spot?” asked Bernard. And the Princess answered, “Their vanity.” So the little party went toward the golden door and found it behind a thick wall of Porpoises. Incessant cries came from beyond the gates, and to every cry they answered like one Porpoise, “We never heard of you. You can’t come in. You can’t come in. We never heard of you.” “We shan’t be any good here,” said Bernard, among the thick, rich voices of the Porpoises. “They can keep anyone back.” “Yes,” said the Princess; “but if the Book Folk look through the gate and see that they’re only Porpoises their wounded vanity will heal, and they’ll come on as strongly as ever. Whereas if they did find human beings who have never heard of them the wounds ought to be mortal. As long as you are able truthfully to say that you don’t know them they can’t get in.” “Reuben would be the person for this,” said Francis. “I don’t believe he’s read _anything_!” “Well, we haven’t read much,” said Cathay comfortably; “at least, not about nasty people.” “I wish I hadn’t,” sighed the Princess through the noise of the voices outside the gate. “I know them all. You hear that cold squeak? That’s Mrs. Fairchild. And that short, sharp, barking sound—that’s Aunt Fortune. The sort of growl that goes on all the time is Mr. Murdstone, and that icy voice is Rosamund’s mother—the one who was so hateful about the purple jar.” “I’m afraid we know some of those,” said Mavis. “Then be careful not to say you don’t. There are heaps you don’t know—John Knox and Machiavelli and Don Diego and Tippoo Sahib and Sally Brass and—I _must_ go back. If anything should happen, fling your arms round the nearest Porpoise and trust to luck. These Book People can’t kill—they can only stupefy.” “But how do you know them all?” Mavis asked. “Do they often attack you?” “No, only when the sky falls. But they always howl outside the gate at the full moon.” So saying she turned away and disappeared in the crowd of faithful Porpoises. And outside the noise grew louder and the words more definite. “I am Mrs. Randolph. Let me in!” “I am good Mrs. Brown. Let me in!” “I am Eric, or Little by Little. I _will_ come in!” “I am Elsie, or Like a Little Candle. Let me in—let me in!” “I am Mrs. Markham.” “I am Mrs. Squeers.” “I am Uriah Heep.” “I am Montdidier.” “I am King John.” “I am Caliban.” “I am the Giant Blunderbore.” “I am the Dragon of Wantley.” And they all cried, again and again: “Let us in! Let me in! Let me in!”