“I was the lion.” And as Shasta gaped with open mouth and said nothing， the Voice continued. “I was the lion who forced you to join with Aravis. I was the cat who comforted you among the houses of the dead. I was the lion who drove the jackals from you while you slept. I was the lion who gave the Horses the new strength of fear for the last mile so that you should reach King Lune in time. And I was the lion you do not remember who pushed the boat in which you lay， a child near death， so that it came to shore where a man sat， wakeful at midnight， to receive you.”
“Then it was you who wounded Aravis？” “It was I.”
“But what for？”
“Child，” said the Voice， “I am telling you your story， not hers. I tell no one any story but his own.”
“Who are you？” asked Shasta.
“Myself，” said the Voice， very deep and low so that the earth shook： and again， “Myself “， loud and clear and gay： and then the third time， “Myself “， whispered so softly you could hardly hear it， and yet it seemed to come from all round you as if the leaves rustled with it.
Shasta was no longer afraid that the Voice belonged to something that would eat him， nor that it was the voice of a ghost. But a new and different sort of trembling came over him. Yet he felt glad too.
