Хоббит
Not at Home
Theirglitteringmailtheyhadcoveredagainwiththeiroldcloaksandtheirbrighthelmswiththeirtatteredhoods,andonebyonetheywalkedbehindThorin,alineoflittlelightsinthedarknessthathaltedoften,listeninginfearoncemoreforanyrumourofthedragon’scoming.Thoughalltheoldadornmentswerelongmoulderedordestroyed,andthoughallwasbefouledandblastedwiththecomingsandgoingsofthemonster,Thorinkneweverypassageandeveryturn.Theyclimbedlongstairs,andturnedandwentdownwideechoingways,andturnedagainandclimbedyetmorestairs,andyetmore’stairsagain.
Theseweresmooth,cutoutofthelivingrockbroadandlair;andup,up,thedwarveswent,andtheymetnosignofanylivingthing,onlyfurtiveshadowsthatfledfromtheapproachoftheirtorchesflutteringinthedraughts.Thestepswerenotmade,allthesame,forhobbit-legs,andBilbowasjustfeelingthathecouldgoonnolonger,whensuddenlytheroofspranghighandfarbeyondthereachoftheirtorch-light.Awhiteglimmercouldbeseencomingthroughsomeopeningfarabove,andtheairsmeltsweeter.Beforethemlightcamedimlythroughgreatdoors,thathungtwistedontheirhingesandhalfburnt.
"ThisisthegreatchamberofThror,"saidThorin;"thehalloffeastingandofcouncil.NotfaroffnowistheFrontGate."
Theypassedthroughtheruinedchamber.Tableswererottingthere;chairsandbencheswerelyingthereoverturned,charredanddecaying.
