The Return Of The Lion
狮王归来
To keep along the edge of the gorge was not so easy as it had looked. Before they had gone many yards they were confronted with young fir woods growing on the very edge， and after they had tried to go through these， stooping and pushing for about ten minutes， they realized that， in there， it would take them an hour to do half a mile. So they came back and out again and decided to go round the fir wood. This took them much farther to their right than they wanted to go， far out of sight of the cliffs and out of sound of the river， till they began to be afraid they had lost it altogether. Nobody knew the time， but it was getting to the hottest part of the day.
When they were able at last to go back to the edge of the gorge （nearly a mile below the point from which they had started） they found the cliffs on their side of it a good deal lower and more broken. Soon they found a way down into the gorge and continued the journey at the river’s edge. But first they had a rest and a long drink. No one was talking any more about breakfast， or even dinner， with Caspian.
They may have been wise to stick to the Rush instead of going along the top. It kept them sure of their direction： and ever since the fir wood they had all been afraid of being forced too far out of their course and losing themselves in the wood. It was an old and pathlessforest， and you could not keep anything like a straight course in it. Patches of hopeless brambles， fallen trees， boggy places and dense undergrowth would be always getting in your way. But the gorge of the Rush was not at all a nice place for travelling either. I mean， it was not a nice place for people in a hurry. For an afternoon‘s ramble ending in a picnic tea it would have been delightful. It had everything you could want on an occasion of that sort-rumbling waterfalls， silver cascades，
deep， amber-coloured pools， mossy rocks， and deep moss on the banksin which you could sink over your ankles， every kind of fern， jewel- like dragonflies， sometimes a hawk overhead and once （Peter and Trumpkin. both thought） an eagle. But of course what the children and the Dwarf wanted to see as soon as possible was the Great River below them， and Beruna， and the way to Aslan’s How.
As they went on， the Rush began to fall more and more steeply. Their journey became more and more of a climb and less and less of a walk-in places even a dangerous climb over slippery rock with a nasty drop into dark chasms， and the river roaring angrily at the bottom.
You may be sure they watched the cliffs on their left eagerly for any sign of a break or any place where they could climb them； but those cliffs remained cruel. It was maddening， because everyone knew that if once they were out of the gorge on that side， they would have only a smooth slope and a fairly short walk to Caspian‘s headquarters.
The boys and the Dwarf were now in favour of lighting a fire and cooking their bear-meat. Susan didn’t want this； she only wanted， as she said， “to get on and finish it and get out of these beastly woods”. Lucy was far too tired and miserable to have any opinion about anything. But as there was no dry wood to be had， it mattered very little what anyone thought. The boys began to wonder if raw meat was really as nasty as they had always been told. Trumpkin assured them it was.
Of course， if the children had attempted a journey like this a few days ago in England， they would have been knocked up. I think I have explained before how Narnia was altering them. Even Lucy was by now， so to speak， only one-third of a little girl going to boarding school for the first time， and two-thirds of Queen Lucy of Narnia.
“At last！” said Susan. “Oh， hurray！” said Peter.
The river gorge had just made a bend and the whole view spread out beneath them. They could see open country stretching before them to the horizon and， between it and them， the broad silver ribbon of the Great River. They could see the specially broad and shallow place which had once been the Fords of Beruna but was now spanned by a long， many-arched bridge. There was a little town at the far end of it.
“By Jove，” said Edmund. “We fought the Battle of Beruna justwhere that town is！”
This cheered the boys more than anything. You can‘t help feeling stronger when you look at a place where you won a glorious victory not to mention a kingdom， hundreds of years ago. Peter and Edmund were soon so busy talking about the battle that they forgot their sore feet and the heavy drag of their mail shirts on their shoulders. The Dwarf was interested too.
They were all getting on at a quicker pace now. The going became easier. Though there were still sheer cliffs on their left， the ground was becoming lower on their right. Soon it was no longer a gorge at all， only a valley. There were no more waterfalls and presently they were in fairly thick woods again.
Then-all at once-whizz， and a sound rather like the stroke of a woodpecker. The children were still wondering where （ages ago） they had heard a sound just like that and why they disliked it so， when Trumpkin shouted， “Down”， at the same moment forcing Lucy （who happened to be next to him） flat down into the bracken. Peter， who had been looking up to see if he could spot a squirrel， had seen what it was-a long cruel arrow had sunk into a tree trunk just above his head. As he pulled Susan down and dropped himself， another came rasping over his shoulder and struck the ground at his side.
“Quick！ Quick！ Get back！ Crawl！” panted Trumpkin.
They turned and wriggled along uphill， under the bracken amid clouds of horribly buzzing flies. Arrows whizzed round them. One struck Susan’s helmet with a sharp ping and glanced off. They crawledquicker. Sweat poured off them. Then they ran， stooping nearly double. The boys held their swords in their hands for fear they would trip them up.