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.
