Once lorek Byrnison  of sig a great  for Pantalaimon, “O go on! Im so frigired—all to deat ead of me, I do ly!”

    form, ing.

    “I just dont kno to do,” Lyra sobbed. “Its too muc...”

    So ting t he bare snow.

    “And even if—if Mrs. Coulter got to Roger first, take o Bolvangar, or  of vengeance....o ce c t to tear t like t?”

    But Pantalaimon tle by little, as torm of fear subsided, so a sense of ened by all means, but herself.

    “I  could be gained by wis. A final deep so go on.

    t by noo tars lay on it like diamonds on velvet. tssimes. Never  so brilliant and dramatic; c danced across t, t ot sunlit city, was clear and solid.

    t beloo ted o ridges  ot and self and far beyond, featureless, lifeless, colorless, and bleak beyond Lyras imagination. to t and  ains, great jagged peaks ting so bladelike edges as sars. to t longingly back, to see if sroops; but notirred on t even sure if sained snohe warriors.

    Pantalaimon flew o  in his owl form.

    “t beyond t all ruments, and Roger cant get away—”

    And as , t ts life, and t out altoget, for to be full of dark intentions, like ts not yet born.

    In the enfolding dark she heard a cry:

    “Lyra! Lyra!”

    “Im coming!” sumbled upruggling, at trengt ly-gleaming snow.

    “Lyra! Lyra!”

    “Im nearly there, Roger!”

    Pantalaimon ion: lion, ermine, eagle, , aken, a kaleidoscope of forms among t—

    “Lyra!”

    t, and saw w was happening.

    F