As
they prepared for sleep in the inn at Bree, darkness lay on Buck-land; a mist
strayed in the dells and along the river-bank. The house at Crickhollow stood
silent. Fatty Bolger opened the door cautiously and peered out. A feeling of
fear had been growing on him all day, and he was unable to rest or go to bed:
there was a brooding threat in the breathless night-air. As he stared out into
the gloom, a black shadow moved under the trees; the gate seemed to open of its
own accord and close again without a sound. Terror seized him. He shrank back
and for a moment he stood trembling in the hall. Then he shut and locked the
door.
The night deepened. There came the soft
sound of horses led with stealth along the lane. Outside the gate they stopped,
and three black figures entered, like shades of night creeping across the
ground. One went to the door, one to the corner of the house on either side;
and there they stood, as still as the shadows of stones, while night went
slowly on. The house and the quiet trees seemed to be waiting breathlessly.
There was a faint stir in the leaves, and a
cock crowed far away. The cold hour before dawn was passing. The figure by the
door moved. In the dark without moon or stars a drawn blade gleamed, as if a
chill light had been unsheathed. There was a blow, soft but heavy, and the door
shuddered.
‘Open, in the name of Mordor!’ said a voice
thin and menacing.
Chapter 11,
A
KNIFE IN THE DARK
J.
R. R. Tolkien, The
Lord of the Rings
 |
| To Nadeto, for sharing Mordor... |
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