The Witch shrieked and ran； in a few moments she was out of sight among the trees. Uncle Andrew turned to do likewise， tripped over a root， and fell flat on his face in a little brook that ran down to join the river. The children could not move. They were not even quite sure that they wanted to. The Lion paid no attention to them. Its huge red mouth was open， but open in song not in a snarl. It passed by them so close that they could have touched its mane. They were terribly afraid it would turn and look at them， yet in some queer way they wished it would. But for all the notice it took of them they might just as well have been invisible and unsmellable. When it had passed them and gone a few paces further it turned， passed them again， and continued its march eastward.
Uncle Andrew， coughing and spluttering， picked himself up.
“Now， Digory，” he said， “we‘ve got rid of that woman， and the brute of a lion is gone. Give me your hand and put on your ring at once.”
“Keep off，” said Digory， backing away from him. “Keep clear of him， Polly. Come over here beside me. Now I warn you， Uncle Andrew， don’t come one step nearer， we‘ll just vanish.”
