The old man shook his head. “No，” he replied in a quiet voice， “I am the Hermit of the Southern March. And now， my son， waste no time on questions， but obey. This damsel is wounded. Your horses are spent. Rabadash is at this moment finding a ford over the Winding Arrow. If you run now， without a moment’s rest， you will still be in time to warn King Lune.”
Shasta‘s heart fainted at these words for he felt he had no strength left. And he writhed inside at what seemed the cruelty and unfairness of the demand. He had not yet learned that if you do one good deed your reward usually is to be set to do another and harder and better one. But all he said out loud was：
“Where is the King？”
The Hermit turned and pointed with his staff. “Look，” he said. “There is another gate， right opposite to the one you entered by. Open it and go straight ahead： always straight ahead， over level or steep， over smooth or rough， over dry or wet. I know by my art that you will find King Lune straight ahead. But run， run： always run.”
