Everyone in that crowd turned its head， and then everyone drew a long breath of wonder and delight. A little way off， towering over their heads， they saw a tree which had certainly not been there before. It must have grown up silently， yet swiftly as a flag rises when you pull it up on a flagstaff， while they were all busied about the coronation. Its spreading branches seemed to cast a light rather than a shade， and silver apples peeped out like stars from under every leaf. But it was the smell which came from it， even more than the sight， that had made everyone draw in their breath. For a moment one could hardly think about anything else.
“Son of Adam，” said Aslan， “you have sown well. And you， Narnians， let it be your first care to guard this Tree， for it is your Shield. The Witch of whom I told you has fled far away into the North of the world； she will live on there， growing stronger in dark Magic. But while that Tree flourishes she will never come down into Narnia. She dare not come within a hundred miles of the Tree， for its smell， which is joy and life and health to you， is death and horror and despair to her.”