Now the Witch said nothing at all, but moved gently across the room, always keeping her fad eyes very steadily towards the Prince. When she had e to a little ark t in the wall not far from the fireplace, she ope, and took out first a handful of a green powder. This she threw on the fire. It did not blaze much, but a very sweet and drowsy smell came from it. And all through the versation which followed, that smell grew stronger, and filled the room, and made it harder to think. Sedly, she took out a musical instrument rather like a mandolin. She began to play it with her fingers — a steady, monotonous thrumming that you didn’t notice after a few minutes. But the less you noticed it, the more it got into your brain and your blood. This also made it hard to think. After she had thrummed for a time （and the sweet smell was now strong） she began speaking in a sweet, quiet voice.
“Narnia?” she said. “Narnia? I have often heard your Lordship utter that name in your ravings. Dear Prince, you are very sick. There is no land called Narnia.”
“Yes there is, though, Ma’am,” said Puddleglum. “You e, I happen to have lived there all my life.”
“Indeed,” said the Witch. “Tell me, I pray you, where that try is?”
“Up there,” said Puddleglum, stoutly, pointing overhead. “I — I don’t kly where.”
“How?” said the Queen, with a kind, soft, musical laugh. “Is there a try up among the stones and mortar of the roof?”
“No,” said Puddleglum, struggling a little to get his breath. “It’s in Overworld.”
“And what, or where, pray is this ... how do you call it ... Overworld?”
“Oh, don’t be so silly,” said Scrubb, who was fighting hard against the entment of the sweet smell and the thrumming. “As if you didn’t know！ It’s up above, up where you e the sky and the sun and the stars. Why, you’ve been there yourlf. We met you there.”
“I cry you mercy, little brother,” laughed the Witch （you couldn’t have heard a lovelier laugh）.“I have no memory of that meeting. But we ofte our friends in strange places when we dream. And unless all dreamed alike, you must not ask them to remember it.”
“Madam,” said the Priernly, “I have already told yrace that I am the King’s son of Narnia.”
“And shalt be, dear friend,” said the Wit a soothing voice, as if she was hum a child, “shalt be king of many imagined lands in thy fancies.”