“You？” said the Queen in a still more terrible voice. Then， in one stride， she crossed the room， seized a great handful of Uncle Andrew‘s grey hair and pulled his head back so that his face looked up into hers. Then she studied his face just as she had studied Digory’s face in the palace of Charn.
He blinked and licked his lips nervously all the time. At last she let him go： so suddenly that he reeled back against the wall.
“I see，” she said scornfully， “you are a Magician.of a sort. Stand up， dog， and don‘t sprawl there as if you were speaking to your equals. How do you come to know Magic？ You are not of royal blood， I’ll swear.”
“Well.ah.not perhaps in the strict sense，” stammered Uncle Andrew. “Not exactly royal， Ma‘am. The Ketterleys are， however， a very old family. An old Dorsetshire family， Ma’am.”
“Peace，” said the Witch. “I see what you are. You are a little， peddling Magician who works by rules and books. There is no real Magic in your blood and heart. Your kind was made an end of in my world a thousand years ago. But here I shall allow you to be my servant.”
“I should be most happy.delighted to be of any service.a p.pleasure， I assure you.”
