“Indeed，” said the Witch. “Tell me， I pray you， where that country is？”
“Up there，” said Puddleglum， stoutly， pointing overhead. “I.I don‘t know exactly where.”
“How？” said the Queen， with a kind， soft， musical laugh. Is there a country up among the stones and mortar of the oof ？““No，” said Puddleglum， struggling a little to get his reath. “It’s in Overworld.”
“And what， or where， pray is this . . . how do you call it. . .
verworld？”
“Oh， don‘t be so silly，” said Scrubb， who was fighting ard against the enchantment of the sweet smell and the hrumming. “As if you didn’t know！ It‘s up above， up where ou can see the sky and the sun and the stars. Why， you’ve een there yourself. We met you there.”
“I cry you mercy， little brother，” laughed the Witch （you ouldn‘t have heard a lovelier laugh）. “I have no memory f that meeting. But we often meet our friends in strange laces when we dream. And unless all dreamed alike， you ust not ask them to remember it.”
“Madam，” said the Prince sternly， “I have already told our Grace that I am the King’s son of Narnia.”
“And shalt be， dear friend，” said the Witch in a soothing oice， as if she was humouring a child， “shalt be king of any imagined lands in thy fancies.”
