Shasta slipped his feet out of the stirrups， slid both his legs over the left side， hesitated for one hideous hundredth of a second， and jumped. It hurt horribly and nearly winded him； but before he knew how it hurt him he was staggering back to help Aravis. He had never done anything like this in his life before and hardly knew why he was doing it now.
One of the most terrible noises in the world， a horse‘s scream， broke from Hwin’s lips. Aravis was stooping low over Hwin‘s neck and seemed to be trying to draw her sword. And now all three-Aravis， Hwin， and the lion-were almost on top of Shasta. Before they reached him the lion rose on its hind legs， larger than you would have believed a lion could be， and jabbed at Aravis with its right paw. Shasta could see all the terrible claws extended. Aravis screamed and reeled in the saddle. The lion was tearing her shoulders. Shasta， half mad with horror， managed to lurch towards the brute. He had no weapon， not even a stick or a stone. He shouted out， idiotically， at the lion as one would at a dog. “Go home！ Go home！” For a fraction of a second he was staring right into its wide-opened， raging mouth. Then， to his utter astonishment， the lion， still on its hind legs， checked itself suddenly， turned head over heels， picked itself up， and rushed away.
Shasta did not for a moment suppose it had gone for good. Heturned and raced for the gate in the green wall which， now for the first time， he remembered seeing. Hwin， stumbling and nearly fainting， was just entering the gate； Aravis still kept her seat but her back was covered with blood.
“Come in， my daughter， come in，” the robed and bearded man was saying， and then， “Come in， my son.” as Shasta panted up to him. He heard the gate closed behind him； and the bearded stranger was already helping Aravis off her horse.
They were in a wide and perfectly circular enclosure， protected by a high wall of green turf. A pool of perfectly still water， so full that the water was almost exactly level with the ground， lay before him. At one end of the pool， completely overshadowing it with its branches， there grew the hugest and most beautiful tree that Shasta had ever seen. Beyond the pool was a little low house of stone roofed with deep and ancient thatch. There was a sound of bleating and over at the far side of the enclosure there were some goats. The level ground was completely covered with the finest grass.
“Are-are-are you，” panted Shasta. “Are you King Lune of Archenland？”
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， oversmooth or rough， over dry or wet. I know by my art that you will find King Lune straight ahead. But run， run： always run.”
Shasta nodded his head， ran to the northern gate and disappeared beyond it. Then the Hermit took Aravis， whom he had all this time been supporting with his left arm， and half led， half carried her into the house. After a long time he came out again.
“Now， cousins，” he said to the Horses. “It is your turn.”
Without waiting for an answer-and indeed they were too exhausted to speak-he took the bridles and saddles off both of them. Then he rubbed them both down， so well that a groom in a King’s stable could not have done it better.
“There， cousins，” he said， “dismiss it all from your minds and be comforted. Here is water and there is grass. You shall have a hot mash when I have milked my other cousins， the goats.”
“Sir，” said Hwin， finding her voice at last， “will the Tarkheena live？ Has the lion killed her？”
“I who know many present things by my art，” replied the Hermit with a smile， “have yet little knowledge of things future. Therefore I do not know whether any man or woman or beast in the whole world will be alive when the sun sets tonight. But be of good hope. The damsel is likely to live as long as any of her age.”
When Aravis came to herself she found that she was lying on her face on a low bed of extraordinary softness in a cool， bare room with walls of undressed stone. She couldn‘t understand why she had been laid on her face； but when she tried to turn and felt the hot， burning pains all over her back， she remembered， and realized why. She couldn’t understand what delightfully springy stuff the bed was made of， because it was made of heather （which is the best bedding） and heather was a thing she had never seen or heard of.
The door opened and the Hermit entered， carrying a large wooden bowl in his hand. After carefully setting this down， he came to the bedside， and asked：
“How do you find yourself， my daughter？”
“My back is very sore， father，” said Aravis， “but there is nothing else wrong with me.”
He knelt beside her， laid his hand on her forehead， and felt her pulse. “There is no fever，” he said. “You will do well. Indeed there is noreason why you should not get up tomorrow. But now， drink this.”
He fetched the wooden bowl and held it to her lips. Aravis couldn‘t help making a face when she tasted it， for goats’ milk is rather a shock when you are not used to it. But she was very thirsty and managed to drink it all and felt better when she had finished.
“Now， my daughter， you may sleep when you wish，” said the Hermit. “For your wounds are washed and dressed and though they smart they are no more serious than if they had been the cuts of a whip. It must have been a very strange lion； for instead of catching you out of the saddle and getting his teeth into you， he has only drawn his claws across your back. Ten scratches： sore， but not deep or dangerous.”
“I say！” said Aravis. “I have had luck.”
