Book V

Minas Tirith

PippinlookedoutfromtheshelterofGandalf’scloak.Hewonderedifhewasawakeorstillsleeping,stillintheswift-movingdreaminwhichhehadbeenwrappedsolongsincethegreatridebegan.Thedarkworldwasrushingbyandthewindsangloudlyinhisears.Hecouldseenothingbutthewheelingstars,andawaytohisrightvastshadowsagainsttheskywherethemountainsoftheSouthmarchedpast.Sleepilyhetriedtoreckonthetimesandstagesoftheirjourney,buthismemorywasdrowsyanduncertain.

Therehadbeenthefirstrideatterriblespeedwithoutahalt,andtheninthedawnhehadseenapalegleamofgold,andtheyhadcometothesilenttownandthegreatemptyhouseonthehill.Andhardlyhadtheyreacheditsshelterwhenthewingedshadowhadpassedoveronceagain,andmenwiltedwithfear.ButGandalfhadspokensoftwordstohim,andhehadsleptinacorner,tiredbutuneasy,dimlyawareofcomingsandgoingsandofmentalkingandGandalfgivingorders.Andthenagainriding,ridinginthenight.Thiswasthesecond,no,thethirdnightsincehehadlookedintheStone.Andwiththathideousmemoryhewokefully,andshivered,andthenoiseofthewindbecamefilledwithmenacingvoices.

Alightkindledinthesky,ablazeofyellowfirebehinddarkbarriersPippincoweredback,afraidforamoment,wonderingintowhatdreadfulcountryGandalfwasbearinghim.Herubbedhiseyes,andthenhesawthatitwasthemoonrisingabovetheeasternshadows,nowalmostatthefull.

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