“Now,” said Puddleglum, “it's ten to one we've already stayed too long, but we may as well make a try. Those lamps will give out in five minutes, I shouldn't wonder.”

They urged the horses to a canter and thundered along the dusky road in fine style. But almost at once it began going downhill. They would have thought Golg had sent them the wrong way if they had not seen, on the other side of the valley, the lamps going on and upwards as far as the eye could reach. But at the bottom of the valley the lamps shone on moving water.

“Haste,” cried the Prince. They galloped down the slope. It would have been nasty enough at the bottom even five minutes later for the tide was running up the valley like a mill-race, and if it had come to swimming, the horses could hardly have won over. But it was still only a foot or two deep, and though it swished terribly round the horses' legs, they reached the far side in safety.

Then began the slow, weary march uphill with nothing ahead to look at but the pale lamps which went up and up as far as the eye could reach. When they looked back they could see the water spreading. All the hills of Underland were now islands, and it was only on those islands that the lamps remained. Every moment some distant light vanished. Soon there would be total darkness everywhere except on the road they were following; and even on the lower part of it behind them, though no lamps had yet gone out, the lamplight shone on water.

Although they had good reason for hurrying, the horses could not go on for ever without a rest. They halted: and in silence they could hear the lapping of water.

“I wonder is what's his name—Father Time—flooded out now,” said Jill. “And all those queer sleeping animals.”

“I don't think we're as high as that,” said Eustace. “Don't you remember how we had to go downhill to reach the sunless sea? I shouldn't think the water has reached Father Time's cave yet.”

“That's as may be,” said Puddleglum. “I'm more interested in the lamps on this road. Look a bit sickly, don't they?”

“They always did,” said Jill.

“Aye,” said Puddleglum. “But they're greener now.”

“You don't mean to say you think they're going out?” cried Eustace.

“Well, however they work, you can't expect them to last for ever, you know,” replied the Marsh-wiggle. “But don't let your spirits down, Scrubb. I've got my eye on the water too, and I don't think it's rising so fast as it did.”

“Small comfort, friend,” said the Prince. “If we cannot find our way out. I cry you mercy, all. I am to blame for my pride and fantasy which delayed us by the mouth of the land of Bism. Now, let us ride on.”

During the hour or so that followed Jill sometimes thought that Puddleglum was right about the lamps, and sometimes thought it was only her imagination. Meanwhile the land was changing. The roof of Underland was so near that even by that dull light they could now see it quite distinctly. And the great, rugged walls of Underland could be seen drawing closer on each side. The road, in fact, was leading them up into a steep tunnel. They began to pass picks and shovels and barrows and other signs that the diggers had recently been at work. If only one could be sure of getting out, all this was very cheering. But the thought of going on into a hole that would get narrower and narrower, and harder to turn back in, was very unpleasant.

At last the roof was so low that Puddleglum and the Prince knocked their heads against it. The party dismounted and led the horses. The road was uneven here and one had to pick one's steps with some care. That was how Jill noticed the growing darkness. There was no doubt about it now. The faces of the others looked strange and ghastly in the green glow. Then all at once (she couldn't help it) Jill gave a little scream. One light, the next one ahead, went out altogether. The one behind them did the same. Then they were in absolute darkness.

“Courage, friends,” came Prince Rilian's voice. “Whether we live or die Aslan will be our good lord.”

“That's right, Sir,” said Puddleglum's voice. “And you must always remember there's one good thing about being trapped down here: it'll save funeral expenses.”

Jill held her tongue. (If you don't want other people to know how frightened you are, this is always a wise thing to do; it's your voice that gives you away.)

“We might as well go on as stand here,” said Eustace; and when she heard the tremble in his voice, Jill knew how wise she'd been not to trust her own.

Puddleglum and Eustace went first with their arms stretched out in front of them, for fear of blundering into anything; Jill and the Prince followed, leading the horses.

“I say,” came Eustace's voice much later, “are my eyes going queer or is there a patch of light up there?”

Before anyone could answer him, Puddleglum called out: “Stop. I'm up against a dead end. And it's earth, not rock. What were you saying, Scrubb?”

“By the Lion,” said the Prince, “Eustace is right. There is a sort of—”

“But it's not daylight,” said Jill. “It's only a cold blue sort of light.”

“Better than nothing, though,” said Eustace. “Can we get up to it?”

“It's not right overhead,” said Puddleglum. “It's above us, but it's in this wall that I've run into. How would it be, Pole, if you got on my shoulders and saw whether you could get up to it?”

THE patch of light did not show up anything down in the darkness where they were standing. The others could only hear, not see, Jill's efforts to get on to the Marsh-wiggle's back. That is, they heard him saying, “You needn't put your finger in my eye,” and, “Nor your foot in my mouth either,” and, “That's more like it,” and, “Now, I'll hold on to your legs. That'll leave your arms free to steady yourself against the earth.”

Then they looked up and soon they saw the black shape of Jill's head against the patch of light.

“Well?” they all shouted up anxiously.

“It's a hole,” called Jill's voice. “I could get through it if I was a little bit higher.”

“What do you see through it?” asked Eustace.

“Nothing much yet,” said Jill. “I say, Puddleglum, let go my legs so that I can stand on your shoulders instead of sitting on them. I can steady myself all right against the edge.”

They could hear her moving and then much more of her came into sight against the greyness of the opening; in fact all of her down to the waist.

“I say—” began Jill, but suddenly broke off with a cry: not a sharp cry. It sounded more as if her mouth had been muffled up or had something pushed into it. After that she found her voice and seemed to be shouting out as loud as she could, but they couldn't hear the words. Two things then happened at the same moment. The patch of light was completely blocked up for a second or so; and they heard both a scuffling, struggling sound and the voice of the Marsh-wiggle gasping: “Quick! Help! Hold on to her legs.

Someone's pulling her. There! No, here. Too late!”

The opening, and the cold light which filled it, were now perfectly clear again. Jill had vanished.

“Jill! Jill!” they shouted frantically, but there was no answer.

“Why the dickens couldn't you have held her feet?” said Eustace.

“I don't know, Scrubb,” groaned Puddleglum. “Born to be a misfit, I shouldn't wonder. Fated. Fated to be Pole's death, just as I was fated to eat Talking Stag at Harfang. Not that it isn't my own fault as well, of course.”

“This is the greatest shame and sorrow that could have fallen on us,” said the Prince. “We have sent a brave lady into the hands of enemies and stayed behind in safety.”

“Don't paint it too black, Sir,” said Puddleglum. “We're not very safe except for death by starvation in this hole.”