Nor did they. The wind became a tempest， the woods roared and creaked all round them. There came a crash. A tree fell right across the road just behind him. “Quiet， Destrier， quiet！” said Caspian， patting his horse‘s neck； but he was trembling himself and knew that he had escaped death by an inch. Lightning flashed and a great crack of thunder seemed to break the sky in two just overhead. Destrier bolted in good earnest. Caspian was a good rider， but he had not the strength to hold him back. He kept his seat， but he knew that his life hung by a thread during the wild career that followed. Tree after tree rose up before them in the dusk and was only just avoided. Then， almost too suddenly to hurt （and yet it did hurt him too） something struck Caspian on the forehead and he knew no more.
When he came to himself he was lying in a firelit place with bruised limbs and a bad headache. Low voices were speaking close at hand.
“And now，” said one， “before it wakes up we must decide what to do with it.”
“Kill it，” said another. “We can’t let it live. It would betray us.”