Then slowly, terribly, without words, the close ranks of the Book People advanced. Mrs. Fairchild, Mrs. Markham, and Mrs. Barbauld led the van. Closely following came the Dragon of Wantley, the Minotaur, and the Little Man that Sintram knew. Then came Mr. Murdstone, neat in a folded white neckcloth, and clothes as black as his whiskers. Miss Murdstone was with him, every bead of her alight with gratified malice. The children found that they knew, without being told, the name of each foe now advancing on them. Paralyzed with terror, they watched the slow and terrible advance. It was not till Eric, or Little by Little, broke the silence with a whoop of joy and rushed upon them that they remembered their own danger, and clutched the waiting Porpoises. Alas! it was too late. Mrs. Markham had turned a frozen glare upon them, Mrs. Fairchild had wagged an admonitory forefinger, wave on wave of sheer stupidity swept over them, and next moment they lost consciousness and sank, each with his faithful Porpoise, into the dreamless sleep of the entirely unintelligent. In vain the main body of the Porpoises hurled themselves against the intruders; their heroism was fruitless. Overwhelmed by the heavy truisms wielded by the enemy, they turned and fled in disorder, and the conquering army entered Merland. Francis was the first to recover consciousness. The Porpoise to which he had clung was fanning him with its fin, and imploring him, for its sake, to look up, to speak. “All right, old chap,” said Francis. “I must have fallen asleep. Where are the others?” They were all there, and the devoted Porpoises quickly restored them to consciousness. [Illustration: _Book Hatefuls._] The four children stood up and looked at each other. “I wish Reuben was here,” said Cathay. “He’d know what to do.” “He wouldn’t know any more than we do,” said Francis haughtily. “We _must_ do _something_,” said Mavis. “It’s our fault again.” “It’s mine,” said Cathay, “but I couldn’t help it.” “If you hadn’t, one of us would have,” said Bernard, seeking to console. “I say, why do only the nasty people come out of the books?” “_I_ know that,” said his Porpoise, turning his black face eagerly toward them. “The stupidest people can’t help knowing something. The Under Folk get in and open the books—at least, they send the Bookworms in to open them. And, of course, they only open the pages where the enemies are quartered.” “Then—” said Bernard, looking at the golden gate, which swung open, its lock hanging broken and useless. “Yes,” said Mavis, “we could, couldn’t we? Open the other books, we mean!” She appealed to her Porpoise.