The eastern sky changed from white to pink and from pink to gold. The Voice rose and rose， till all the air was shaking with it. And just as it swelled to the mightiest and most glorious sound it had yet produced， the sun arose.
Digory had never seen such a sun. The sun above the ruins of Charn had looked older than ours： this looked younger. You could imagine that it laughed for joy as it came up. And as its beams shot across the land the travellers could see for the first time what sort of place they were in. It was a valley through which a broad， swift river wound its way， flowing eastward towards the sun. Southward therewere mountains， northward there were lower hills. But it was a valley of mere earth， rock and water； there was not a tree， not a bush， not a blade of grass to be seen. The earth was of many colours： they were fresh， hot and vivid. They made you feel excited； until you saw the Singer himself， and then you forgot everything else.
It was a Lion. Huge， shaggy， and bright， it stood facing the risen sun. Its mouth was wide open in song and it was about three hundred yards away.
“This is a terrible world，” said the Witch. “We must fly atonce. Prepare the Magic.”