'I wonder,' said Frodo.
'It's my doom, I think, to go to that Shadow yonder, so that a way will be
found. But will good or evil show it to me? What hope we had was in speed.
Delay plays into the Enemy's hands −
and here I am: delayed. Is it the will of the Dark Tower that steers us? All my
choices have proved ill. I should have left the Company long before, and come
down from the North, east of the River and of the Emyn Muil, and so over the
hard of Battle Plain to the passes of Mordor. But now it
isn't possible for you and me alone to find a way back, and the Orcs are
prowling on the east bank. Every day that passes is a precious day lost. I am
tired, Sam. I don't know what is to be done. What food have we got left?'
'Only those, what d'you
call 'em, lembas, Mr. Frodo. A fair supply. But they are better than naught, by
a long bite. I never thought, though, when I first set tooth in them, that I
should ever come to wish for a change. But I do now: a bit of plain bread, and
a mug − aye, half a mug −
of beer would go down proper. I've lugged my cooking-gear all the way from the
last camp, and what use has it been? Naught to make a fire with, for a start;
and naught to cook, not even grass!'
THE
TWO TOWERS
(BOOK
FOUR, Chapter 1: The Taming of Sméagol)
J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings
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