boxed in a corner.

    Pantalaimon, an eagle no ! Left!”

    S  barrels and ted iron sed for it like a bullet.

    But ts! S ung, and loatarred strings ruggling in vain.

    “Pan! Pan!”

    But tore at t Pantalaimon, and Lyra felt t cry as ly las, body,  ground. Sly like a fly being trussed by a spider. Poor  Pan  to chrough his neck—

    till as tying t sa too.

    Pantalaimon sat up and blinked, and t t man fell c across Lyra,  strings fell ating, and o cuddle Pantalaimon.

    Kneeling, sed to look up at turned, t h.

    “t ent Lyra?”

    A familiar voice, but s place it till epped for lig. A gyptian! A real Oxford gyptian! “tony Costa,” o play tle brots in Jeric him.”