Bacchus and his people splashed forward into the shallow water， and a minute later the most curious things began happening. Great， strong trunks of ivy came curling up all the piers of the bridge， growing as quickly as a fire grows， wrapping the stones round， splitting， breaking， separating them. The walls of the bridge turned into hedges gay with hawthorn for a moment and then disappeared as the whole thing with a rush and a rumble collapsed into the swirling water. With much splashing， screaming， and laughter the revellers waded or swam or danced across the ford （“Hurrah！ It’s the Ford of Beruna again now！” cried the girls） and up the bank on the far side and into the town.
Everyone in the streets fled before their faces. The first house they came to was a school： a girls‘ school， where a lot of Narnian girls， with their hair done very tight and ugly tight collars round their necks and thick tickly stockings on their legs， were having a history lesson. The sort of History that was taught in Narnia under Miraz’s rule was duller than the truest history you ever read and less true than the most exciting adventure story.
“If you don‘t attend， Gwendolen，” said the mistress， “and stop looking out of the window， I shall have to give you an order-mark.”
“But please， Miss Prizzle-” began Gwendolen.
“Did you hear what I said， Gwendolen？” asked Miss Prizzle. “But please， Miss Prizzle，” said Gwendolen， “there’s a LION！”
“Take two order-marks for talking nonsense，” said Miss Prizzle. “And now-” A roar interrupted her. Ivy came curling in at the windows of the classroom. The walls became a mass of shimmering green， and leafy branches arched overhead where the ceiling had been. Miss Prizzle found she was standing on grass in a forest glade. She clutched at her desk to steady herself， and found that the desk was a rose-bush. Wild people such as she had never even imagined were crowding round her. Then she saw the Lion， screamed and fled， and with her fled her class， who were mostly dumpy， prim little girls with fat legs. Gwendolen hesitated.
“You‘ll stay with us， sweetheart？” said Aslan.
“Oh， may I？ Thank you， thank you，” said Gwendolen. Instantly she joined hands with two of the Maenads， who whirled her round in a merry dance and helped her take off some of the unnecessary and uncomfortable clothes that she was wearing.
Wherever they went in the little town of Beruna it was the same. Most of the people fled， a few joined them. When they left the town they were a larger and a merrier company.
They swept on across the level fields on the north bank， or left bank， of the river. At every farm animals came out to join them. Sad old donkeys who had never known joy grew suddenly young again； chained dogs broke their chains； horses kicked their carts to pieces and came trotting along with them-clop-clop-kicking up the mud and whinnying.
At a well in a yard they met a man who was beating a boy. The stick burst into flower in the man’s hand. He tried to drop it， but it stuck to his hand. His arm became a branch， his body the trunk of a tree， his feet took root. The boy， who had been crying a moment before， burst out laughing and joined them.
At a little town halfway to Beaversdam， where two rivers met， they came to another school， where a tired-looking girl was teaching arithmetic to a number of boys who looked very like pigs. She looked out of the window and saw the divine revellers singing up the street and a stab of joy went through her heart. Aslan stopped right under the window and looked up at her.
“Oh， don‘t， don’t，” she said. “I‘d love to. But I mustn’t. I must stick to my work. And the children would be frightened if they saw you.”
“Frightened？” said the most pig-like of the boys. “Who‘s she talking to out of the window？ Let’s tell the inspector she talks to people out of the window when she ought to be teaching us.”
“Let‘s go and see who it is，” said another boy， and they all came crowding to the window. But as soon as their mean little faces looked out， Bacchus gave a great cry of Euan， euoi-oi-oi-oi and the boys all began howling with fright and trampling one another down to get out of the door and jumping out of the windows. And it was saidafterwards （whether truly or not） that those particular little boys were never seen again， but that there were a lot of very fine little pigs in that part of the country which had never been there before.
“Now， Dear Heart，” said Aslan to the Mistress， and she jumped down and joined them.
At Beaversdam they re-crossed the river and came east again along the southern bank. They came to a little cottage where a child stood in the doorway crying.
“Why are you crying， my love？” asked Aslan. The child， who had never seen a picture of a lion， was not afraid of him.
“Auntie’s very ill，” she said. “She‘s going to die.”
Then Aslan went to go in at the door of the cottage， but it was too small for him. So， when he had got his head through， he pushed with his shoulders （Lucy and Susan fell off when he did this） and lifted the whole house up and it fell backwards and apart. And there， still in her bed， though the bed was now in the open air， lay a little old woman who looked as if she had Dwarf blood in her. She was at death’s door， but when she opened her eyes and saw the bright， hairy head of the lion staring into her face， she did not scream or faint. She said， “Oh， Aslan！ I knew it was true. I‘ve been waiting for this all my life. Have you come to take me away？”
“Yes， Dearest，” said Aslan. “But not the long journey yet.” And as he spoke， like the flush creeping along the underside of a cloud at sunrise， the colour came back to her white face and her eyes grew bright and she sat up and said， “Why， I do declare I feel that better. I think I could take a little breakfast this morning.”
“Here you are， mother，” said Bacchus， dipping a pitcher in the cottage well and handing it to her. But what was in it now was not water but the richest wine， red as redcurrant jelly， smooth as oil， strong as beef， warming as tea， cool as dew.