“I.I don’t think I do， Sir，” said Caspian. “I‘m only a kid.” “Good，” said Aslan. “If you had felt yourself sufficient， it would have been a proof that you were not. Therefore， under us and under the High King， you shall be King of Narnia， Lord of Cair Paravel， and Emperor of the Lone Islands. You and your heirs while your race lasts. And your coronation.but what have we here？” For at that moment a curious little procession was approaching.eleven Mice， six of whom carried between them something on a litter made of branches， but the litter was no bigger than a large atlas. No one has ever seen mice more woebegone than these. They were plastered with mud.some with bloodtoo.and their ears were down and their whiskers drooped and their tails dragged in the grass， and their leader piped on his slender pipe a melancholy tune. On the litter lay what seemed little better than a damp heap of fur； all that was left of Reepicheep. He was still breathing， but more dead than alive， gashed with innumerable wounds， one paw crushed， and， where his tail had been， a bandaged stump.
“Now， Lucy，” said Aslan.
