Article: 245798 of rec.arts.books.tolkien Path: news.uchicago.edu!not-for-mail Newsgroups: rec.arts.books.tolkien,alt.fan.tolkien Subject: E-text Book V Chapter 1: MINAS TIRITH(TM) X-Newsreader: trn 4.0-test70 (17 January 1999) From: <<>> (Steuard Jensen) Lines: 525 Message-ID: <%TEb7.89$O4.5219@news.uchicago.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: 128.135.12.7 X-Trace: news.uchicago.edu 997137019 128.135.12.7 (Mon, 06 Aug 2001 17:30:19 CDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 06 Aug 2001 17:30:19 CDT Organization: The University of Chicago X-SessionID: %TEb7-9410-O4-4998@news.uchicago.edu X-Hash-Info: post-filter,v:1.4 X-Hash: 69907745 3db4b7f2 923d5e47 5afaebf8 39c6df45 Date: Mon, 06 Aug 2001 22:30:19 GMT Xref: news.uchicago.edu rec.arts.books.tolkien:245798 alt.fan.tolkien:72771 At long last, I have completed Chapter 1 of Book V of the E-text. My apologies for the delay; I held off on writing it until the discussion over IV.13 was mostly settled, and then found that Real Life(TM) had begun to make increasingly pressing demands on my time. Those demands are still there, but I've held things up already, so here goes nothing. I hope you enjoy it. If anyone finds contradictions between this chapter and what has gone before (or if you can correct the one tiny bit of Elvish that I've used), please let me know! Oh, and as a final note, there's one detail about Gandalf in this chapter that might be seen as conflicting with some earlier statements and agreeing with others; I've got a way of reconciling the two in mind, if anyone believes it to be necessary, but there's no place for it in the chapter. Now that nearly a full Book has passed, incidentally, I'm very curious to know if anyone recognized a part of my last chapter as being inspired by one of Mark Twain's less familiar writings (I doubt it, but I thought I'd ask). For those who didn't, I'm curious to know if anyone actually pieced together exactly how the Two Watchers were sitting. (For those with even more free time, I'm also curious about how many of my references to various stories in that chapter were recognized at all.) I'd love to see people's replies to these queries, but I won't be crushed if I'm the only person with any interest in them at all. :) Steuard Jensen ------------------------------------------------------------ Book V, Chapter 1 MINAS TIRITH(TM) Pipsqueak looked out from the shadow of Gandalf's bulk. He wondered if he was awake or still sleeping, still in the hazy somnambulant state in which he had spent most of the time since their hasty departure from Edoras. He blinked a few times, and tried to recall the events that had led to their journey. The camp had been returning to sleep after Aragon had claimed the Palantarium as his own, when a brief musical ringing sound suddenly emanated from the artifact. Gandalf leapt up, rigid with fear, his hands clenched. "The Instant Messenger of Mordor!" he cried. "The configuration files are still there!" Aragon, who had stooped to investigate the noise, stood and looked at Gandalf questioningly. Drawn by the commotion, others in the camp gathered round as well. Gathering his wits, Gandalf ventured, "Aruman must have planted incriminating evidence in the Palantarium when he held me captive, and given Sauron himself the means to reach me at will." Observing the dubious looks of those around him, he rushed on. "Clearly, the plots of the traitor Aruman and his dark master run even deeper than we feared. Only haste will serve us now! Wait not for the dawn! Let the swift not wait for the slow! Act now, think later! Run!" As the startled riders and companions hastily broke camp in a rout of confusion and began to speed off singly and in pairs toward Deem's Help, Gandalf grabbed Pipsqueak and tossed him onto Slimshade's back. "You looked into the stone, you're coming with me," he said, and then to himself, "Good insurance, too." After a grunt as Gandalf settled on his back, Slimshade trotted off into the night. All that had been many long days ago, and Pipsqueak was now even more tired and sore than after his run across Edoras with Cedric and Clarence. As he woke more fully, he heard Gandalf muttering angrily at himself, and caught a few scattered phrases: "didn't even clear the browser history... buddy list... oh Eru, the bookmarks, too..." The wizard seemed thoroughly cross, and he wasn't making a bit of sense. "What are you saying, Gandalf?" asked Pipsqueak. "Eh, never you mind. Now that you're awake, though, it's time to continue your education." Pipsqueak groaned: early on their journey, Gandalf had become frustrated with his frequent questions, and demanded, "What more do you want to know?" Laughing, he had answered, "The names and numbers of all the girls in the Shire, and cheap sources for every popular drug, and the entire history of Middle-earth and Atlantis and the Far West. What less?" Gandalf had taken this as an invitation, and had entertained himself on their long ride by boring Pipsqueak to tears with history lessons. "Where did we leave off?" he now asked. "I believe that I had just told you of the rise of the Stewards in Gondor(TM), of Mardil(TM) and the founding of the University, and of his consolidation of the copyrights of the Magic Kingdom(TM), but I have not yet told you that Mardil(TM) was also known for his crusade against the rampant sexism of his time. He it was who insisted on including a strong female character in every script to come out of Disgiliath(TM), but perhaps his most lasting contribution to the status of women in Gondor(TM) was the unique system of matrilineal patrimony that he instituted within his own House. Whereas the kingship had always passed from father to eldest son, Mardil(TM) declared that the Steward's eldest daughter should select her own husband, who would then become the heir to the Stewardship. While not perfect, this system has succeeded in providing Gondor(TM) with rulers who were able both to lead her armies in battle and to cry during romantic dramas. Of course, the system reverts back to the old patrilineal arrangement in cases where the wife of the Steward produces no female offspring, as is for example the case with the children of Denethor(TM)'s wife Lossiel(TM). A more complicated situation arose in the days of Turin(TM) I, whose wife died childless..." Unable to deal with Gandalf's constant drone, Pipsqueak became drowsy again and paid little attention to Gandalf telling him of the customs of Gondor(TM), and how the Lord of the City had replaced the aging monorail loop through Edoras with a system of horse-drawn carriages to build ambiance and save on upkeep costs. The wizard had once again driven the hobbit's conscious mind into complete withdrawal. As he fell slowly back into his zombie-like state, Pipsqueak had a strange feeling: he stood still like a great boulder by the sea, while Gandalf's words crashed over him like waves driven by a violent wind. Later, whether one day or many he could not tell, Pipsqueak woke to find himself surrounded by chill grey mists in the twilit hour before dawn. Still sitting behind him, Gandalf guided Slimshade along a well built wall of stone that loomed, barely visible, out of the mist to their right. Sensing that he had awakened, Gandalf said, "This is the Wall of Lammas Ichor(TM), the outer wall of Minas Tirith(TM) that was built after a goblin raid razed a harvest festival over a century ago. It was once quite ruinous and passable in some places, but it appears that the masons of Gondor(TM) have been busy since last I came this way." They pressed on, for Gandalf was in haste to find a section of the wall that was still in disrepair before the concealment of the morning mists was burned away. After they had followed the wall for some time, the sound of hurried labor could be heard: beat of hammers, clink of trowels, and the curses of those who were nearly run down by carts rushing through the mist. As they had hoped, the workers had not yet finished their repairs of the great wall, and a small section remained that was both unwatched and tumbled down. Slimshade climbed over the piles of rubble, and his hoofbeats were lost in the sounds of construction. They passed now into the wide land beyond the Lammas Ichor(TM), where they saw wide tilth, oasts, garners, folds, byres, a whole mess of rills, and many other common sights of the countryside described in obscure, obsolete language. After riding through the fields for over half an hour, a brisk wind from the river swept aside the mist, and Pipsqueak beheld the polished walls and tall spires of Minas Tirith(TM) for the first time. For the fashion of Gondor(TM)'s greatest city was such that it was surrounded by seven walls, each of them higher and sturdier than the last, and soldiers patrolled the narrow aisles between them. Its streets and boulevards were built into the very slope of Mount Minnie(TM), easternmost outpost of the Off-White Mountains, and property values rose with every foot of elevation. Turnstiles innumerable guarded the road into the city, and in each of the seven walls was hung a great gate of stone: the only opening in those tall battlements save where the abandoned monorail track passed through the walls high above the ground. As they watched, the first light of dawn shone forth and fell upon the peak of Mount Minnie(TM), bathing it in gold, and glittered on the brightly painted towers that rose so high above the Castle of Lornavaniwen(TM) that was carved out of the mountain itself at the city's peak. Everywhere Pipsqueak looked, Minas Tirith(TM) was immaculately clean, with every wall and window sparkling in the new light of day. A flowing trumpet call rang out from the distant castle, and at that signal, the seven gates of the city swung open, welcoming visitors with the promise of Magic(TM) and Wonder(TM). As sunlight illuminated the plain, Gandalf spurred Slimshade to his greatest burst of speed of the entire journey. In a truly surprising display of dexterity and strength, the horse managed to leap full across the turnstiles despite the great weight of Gandalf on his back. As they charged on toward the great gates, men cried, "Mesprendeur! Mesprendeur!" The gates, so newly opened for the day, began to swing closed. "Let me pass!" cried Gandalf. "I must come to your Lord Denethor(TM), to bring him council in this dark hour! Vile rumors must be squelched before they reach his ears! Let me pass!" The movers of the gates paid no heed to his demanding voice, and the great stones swung closed with resounding booms, but with a final burst of energy, Slimshade proved the swifter, and Pipsqueak found himself gazing upon the heart of the Magic Kingdom of Gondor(TM) for the first time. Slimshade's hooves echoed hollowly on the broad stone-paved path, laid out in enormous flat cobbles, all of them bright clean white and laced with cheerful red veins; it was bordered by thin strips of well- trimmed grass. Beyond them were stone pathways where lines could have formed, and beyond them in turn were stone houses and attractions and souvenir shops. Stone flowerpots stood beside stone doorways and on stone windowsills. Painted stone statues of giant, smiling animals stood along the walkways. Minas Tirith(TM) had an air of great antiquity and permanence, yet in truth it was year by year falling into decay. In every street they passed, some great entertainment hall or gift shop was silent: empty, or even closed. Over one great gate, Pipsqueak read in strange and ancient characters the name "Ye Hynted Mynsion", but although the wide stone entrance spoke of great crowds and popularity, the courtyard was silent: there was no line. "Is there _no_ wood?" asked Pipsqueak. "Nothing but stone?" He looked up at the roofs and walls and statues mounting up the hillside behind the gates: tiers of stone, painted or naturally multi-colored. "There is wood here, and some metal," said Gandalf, "but there is more stone. The Atlanteans liked stone." They rode on, drawing stares from the residents of the city, who were unaccustomed to horses. Indeed, a cleaning crew began to follow them up the street, pausing occasionally to scrub away any hoof marks and carrying buckets and shovels in case of emergencies. At first, the mountainside loomed up far above the buildings that they passed, but as they went farther up the slope, the buildings grew taller and taller and seemed to be part of the mountain themselves. Finally, another gate rose up before them, the wall around it bending away to either side until it joined seamlessly into the bedrock. They went through this gate, too, and entered a wide flat courtyard of polished stone. It was mirror white, and it blazed up fiercely in the early sunlight. Before them stood the Castle of Lornavaniwen(TM). The sharp points of its turrets, brilliant as sapphires, pierced the sky far above their heads, and tallest of all stood the Tower of Commerce itself, from which the Lord of the City could chart the course of his full domain. As they gazed upon the castle, half a dozen guards appeared out of hidden corners in the courtyard. Their leader stepped forward, and in a cheerful but firm voice said, "No horses in the Citadel." Pipsqueak and Gandalf were bundled to the ground, and before they knew what was happening, Slimshade had been led away. Pipsqueak finally lowered his eyes from the shining walls before him and beheld the ancient raiment of the Guards of the Citadel(TM). With its great age, Gondor(TM) had a keen sense of its own history, and a few customs were preserved that dated back to the Atlanteans themselves. The Guards of the Citadel(TM) traced their elite tradition back to the sailors of the famed Atlantean navy, and alone among the men of Gondor(TM) they continued to proudly wear the ancient uniform of their forebears. That classic uniform of the Sea-Kings, worn by Anarchion himself, consisted in its entirety of a helm in the fashion of a blue sailor's cap adorned with a flowing black ribbon, and a bright blue sailor's shirt. Gandalf strode quickly across the white-paved court, pushing Pipsqueak ahead of him. As they passed, Pipsqueak saw a high fountain off to the side, splashing up against a great artificial tree covered with ladders, platforms, and ropes. It seemed to be abandoned now, but he could make out old signs sitting next to it: in cracking paint, one of them read "Tarzan's Treehouse," while an almost entirely faded sign set off to the side seemed to read, "Thy Swyss Fymily Rybinson". It looked mournful, and quite dull, and as he ran before Gandalf he wondered why it was left in this place, where everything else was well tended. He had absolutely no idea. They walked down a long passage paved with marble, and as they went Gandalf spoke softly to Pipsqueak. "Be careful of your words, Master Paragraph! Denethor(TM) is a kind old man, if preoccupied with rules and order. I am of another sort, and I will not have your hobbit pertness spoiling my designs. He will speak most to you, because of what you can tell him of the fate of his beloved son Boromir(TM), but under cover of this he will seek to make you reveal more of my doings than I can afford. Tell him no more than you must, and say nothing about Aragon if you value your life." At those words, Pipsqueak felt the cold point of a dagger press into his lower back. "Why not?" he asked. "Wasn't Strider planning to come here himself? I thought he and HeyHoDen were just a few days behind us." "Maybe, maybe," said Gandalf. "Though if my messengers get through in time, he may go off in a direction that no one expects. It will be better so. And if he does come, I want to herald his arrival myself." Gandalf halted before a tall door of carven stone, and he gave a cruel chuckle. "See, Master Pipsqueak, I have already instructed you in the history of Gondor(TM), and if you'd been paying attention you would understand the need for silence. Do as I bid!" With that, the door opened, and although none could be seen to open it, its motion was accompanied by a great squeaking sound that bore little resemblance to the noise of ungreased hinges. Pipsqueak looked into a great hall, lit by deep windows cut into the stone of the walls, beyond the broad black marble pillars that upheld the high stone ceiling, carven in many forms dimly visible to those below. No hangings nor storied webs, nor any things of woven stuff or wood, were to be seen in that long solemn hall; but between the pillars there stood a silent company of images graven in cold stone: figures clad in the ancient mode of the kings, dressed as all manner of ducks, dogs, rodents, and caricatured humans of every description. Suddenly, Pipsqueak recalled the great stone figures of the Argonath. "Boy," he whispered back to Gandalf, "these statues sure don't hold a candle to the great stone figures of the Argonath!" Gandalf said nothing, and simply pushed him forward. At the far end of the hall upon a dais of many steps was set a stone chair, black and unadorned, and on it sat an old man gazing at his nearby desk. At the foot of the dais, tucked back in a shadowed corner, was a high throne set with jewels and inlaid with finest gold, all of which seemed to be in need of polishing. As they approached, the old man did not look up. In his hand was a small white rod with a golden tip that he was tapping on the table in frustration. "Hail, Denethor(TM), Lord and Steward of Minas Tirith(TM)," said Gandalf. "In this dark hour, I am come with..." "With poor timing as usual," interrupted Denethor(TM). "When preparing for war, the Stewards have spent the period from eight to eight thirty in the morning composing intelligence orders for time out of mind. Walk-in audiences are not available until eleven. But you were never one to pay heed to courtesy." Gandalf sighed quietly, and continued, "...with council and tidings of war. Is it naught to you that HeyHoDen has fought a great battle, and that I have broken the back of Aruman? Is it naught to you that slanderous rumors about me may already be spreading, rumors that have absolutely no basis in truth? Is it naught to you that Isengard has been overthrown and burned?" "The burning that comes to _my_ mind occurred the last time that you visited Minas Tirith(TM)," said Denethor(TM). "You have not been welcome here since then, and you are not welcome here now: if the Guard at the city gates had been following the established protocols properly, you would never have been able to enter my city in the first place. As for your news, I know already enough regarding these deeds for my own council. Yea, for though the Stones be lost, or so they say, still the lords of Gondor(TM) have better vision than lesser men. But as you have already interrupted my work, and as you have brought a guest whose news does interest me, we may as well push my breakfast back by thirty-five minutes. Sit now!" Pipsqueak settled onto the stool that was brought to him, but never took his eyes from the old lord. Was it so, or had he only imagined it, that Denethor(TM) had given him a big wink when he spoke of the Stones? Gandalf sat on the chair provided for him as well, but close enough that Pipsqueak still felt the dagger poised and ready at his back. Turning to Pipsqueak, Denethor(TM) smiled sadly. "Now, Paragraph son of Palatine, tell me of my son! When did you last see him, and what was his fate?" "How did you know my name?" Pipsqueak exclaimed, but Denethor(TM) did not answer. After a moment, Pipsqueak began, "Boromir(TM) fell under heavy assault by goblins and critics when our company was scattered: he was surrounded alone, and my kinsman Moribund and I were captured when we tried to come to his aid." "Tell me more! Why was he alone, and how could such a great warrior and musician fall, with only goblins to withstand him?" "The mightiest man may be slain by a knife in the gut," Pipsqueak said, "and Boromir(TM) had already received one from our mad cousin Frodo. Perhaps if Aragon had stopped to help Boromir(TM) instead of dashing off into the woods, things would have been..." "AHEM," hacked Gandalf, pretending to cough violently while pressing his dirk firmly against Pipsqueak's back. Pipsqueak froze, and made a horrible swallowing noise in his throat: "_gollum_". He fell silent. Denethor(TM) gave Gandalf a stern look, and turning back to Pipsqueak said, "Please, go on. You have nothing to fear from me. If it is easier, tell me your full tale, from your first meeting with Boromir(TM) until his untimely death. One who has risked his life for my son will always be a friend of Gondor(TM)." Comforted, Pipsqueak told Denethor(TM) of their journey from Riven- dell, always inflating Boromir(TM)'s role to better please the old man. As he described their flight from the house of Moira, he found himself explaining the conflict over the leadership of their company: "...and the contract clearly said that Aragon son of Arathon, the guy with the broken-reforged sword, was to..." At that, Gandalf sprang up in fury. "Why you little rat-sized turncoat!" he cried, and he came at Pipsqueak with his blade bare. Pipsqueak squeaked in terror, and leaping up the dais threw himself at Denethor(TM)'s feet. "Little service, no doubt, will a great Lord of Men find in a hobbit, but what skills I have I offer now if you can save me from this madman!" Pipsqueak was quite impressed that he had managed to extemporize such a good speech, and he whipped out his sword and handed it hilt-first to Denethor(TM). As the Steward took the weapon, he thrust it forward and faced Gandalf in anger. Gandalf stood at the base of the steps and stared intently into Denethor(TM)'s eyes. "What is this," asked Denethor(TM), shaking his head in disgust, "some kind of juvenile staring contest? I had planned to house you and your companion somewhere that I could have you watched, but after this outrage in my own chambers I think I shall have you taken to a cell instead. The time of your audience is up, and the schedule of Gondor(TM) is mine to set, unless the king should come again, along with a full set of authenticated proofs of ancestry and the appropriate forms filled out in triplicate." "Unless the king should come again?" said Gandalf. "Well, my lord Steward, I'll see what I can do about that. The rule of no realm is mine, neither Gondor(TM) nor any other, but all things great or small are within the realm that I consider my concern. And if you think me juvenile and no true man, I shall say only this. By some chance, the blood of Atlantis runs nearly true in you, as it did in your son Boromir(TM), and yet does not in your other son, Dr. Faramir. For I also am a Steward. Did you not know?" And with that he turned and strode swiftly forth from the hall, while Denethor(TM) stood rigid in shock with his face white and his mouth agape. Pipsqueak's dagger fell from the Steward's trembling hand and clattered to the floor, and he slowly sank back onto his lofty chair. Minutes passed, and Denethor(TM) regained at least some of his composure. Finally recalling the presence of Pipsqueak, he said, "I am sorry that you had to witness that, and I hope that it shall be long before you find yourself in such a tight corner between two such terrible old men." At that, he laughed wryly. "I accept your offer of service, for the sake of my son, for your own protection, and because generous deeds should not be checked by cold companions. However, the proper paperwork must be filled out at once, and in any case the time I had allotted for your morning audience has ended. You shall return to me soon to tell me of this Aragon and the rest of your journey, though after this morning's interruption it may prove difficult to find space in my schedule. Now," he said, raising his voice and looking toward the alcoves about the hall, "who is the Guard on errand duty today?" A man, clad in the blue sailor's cap and shirt of the Guard of the Citadel(TM), stepped to the foot of the dais and bowed. "I am, my lord. Bererond son of Bararor, at your service." Pipsqueak politely tried to avoid glancing below his waist. Denethor(TM) nodded. "This is Paragraph son of Palatine, whom I have taken into my service. Escort him to the Registrar to complete the necessary documents and to be measured for his uniform, and teach him the Grade II, III, V, and VIII.B. passwords. You may then introduce him to our fair city, answer his questions, and show him to his barracks; be sure that he returns by the ninth hour of the evening. The Registrar will issue him temporary meal vouchers for use until his forms are processed and his existing trademarks are assumed." He then turned to Pipsqueak, and returning to him his sword, said, "Farewell, my liege, and I hope to soon hear your tale in full." Bererond led Pipsqueak to the quarters of the Guard, and after they completed the lengthy application and registration process they had a late lunch in one of the private "cast members only" cafeterias that looked out over the great stone gates of the city. Pipsqueak learned much from Bererond about Minas Tirith(TM)'s culture, its nightlife, and its people, and Bererond was pleased to learn that Pipsqueak had connections that might be able to supply much of the Guard's need for black market drugs and alcohol. Beyond the stone roofs of the city, they gazed out over the tilth within the Lammas Ichor(TM), upon the pitifully small crowd gathered to watch the cowboys performing their twice-daily rodeo at the Pelennor Fields, and along the long, dusty road that led from the great gates into the south. "That is the road to the potato vales of Tubeladen and Lotstarch, and the mountain hollows, and then on to Lebanon and the fields of the south," explained Bererond. Then, in a darker tone, he went on, "From Lebanon yestereve came evil tidings of a great fleet approaching the mouths of Anduin, manned by the Tampalas Bay Corsairs. Our great fear is that this attack will inspire local riots and draw off much of the help that we looked to have from Lebanon and Belfast, where folk are swarthy and expendable. All the more are we troubled by the conflict in Edoras, and the tidings of inexplicable battle that you bring." "I am no warrior," said Pipsqueak, "and I dislike any thought of battle or its causes. No stroke would have been struck in Rohan, I think, but for Gandalf. But look! What is that dust that I see in the distance, far down the road?" "Rightly said!" cried Bererond once he had spied the distant cloud himself. "The Captains of the Outlands are expected up the South Road ere sundown. Come, let us make our way to the great gate before the crowd forms." Before long, they found themselves in a throng going toward the entrance to the city, filled with worried citizens of Minas Tirith(TM) who deeply needed this boost to their morale. When they reached the gates, Pipsqueak and Bererond spoke their names and various Grade III passwords, and they were given stamps on their wrists and allowed to find a better vantage point in the great stone-paved space beyond the turnstiles into which all the ways to Minas Tirith(TM) ran. All eyes were turned southwards, and soon a murmur rose as the dust kicked up by the approaching reinforcements drew nearer. "Forlong! Forlong!" Pipsqueak heard men calling. "What does it mean?" he asked. "Forlong has come," Bererond answered, "old Forlong the Fat, the Lord of Lotstarch, home of my father. Hurrah! Here he is. Good old Forlong!" Out of the dust, there came walking a big, thick-limbed horse, and on it sat a big, thick-limbed man of huge girth. He was clad in mail and wore a black helm, and he bore a long, heavy spear. "Forlong!" men shouted. "True heart, true friend! Forlong!" Behind him, the dust settled. The onlookers stood silent for a while. The wind had died, and the evening was heavy, and for some this made the shock of disappointment too much to bear: first one, and then another of the onlookers sat down where he was and began to cry quietly. Eventually, the crowd began to wander listlessly back into the city, though it seemed that some crept instead away toward Minas Minnie(TM) and the hills. Pipsqueak thought he heard one of these men mutter, "Gondor shall not perish yet! Hope and memory shall live still in some hidden valley where the grass is green... and I'm gonna get there while the gettin's good." As they trudged back up to the barracks, Pipsqueak and Bererond were silent, each lost in his own thoughts. Bererond showed him to his newly assigned bunk. "It is a black night," he said, "and the end of a black day. We can only hope that things will look brighter in the morning. Wake early, for you will be summoned before the second hour to the Lord Denethor(TM) to receive your permanent assignment with the Guard. Farewell, and sleep in peace!" The barracks were dark as Pipsqueak climbed into his bed to settle in for the evening. Gloom settled still more heavily on him, for he was alone in a strange city and was soon to be thrust into the terrible heat of war. For a while he lay and listened to the sounds of the other Guards breathing and tossing in their sleep, and then he joined them in their uneasy slumber. In the night he was wakened by a dim light above him: Gandalf had come and was leaning over the bed with a pillow poised above Pipsqueak's face. "I have come for you here," said the wizard in an almost inaudible whisper, "for I must have a little peace to work in this city, alone. I cannot leave you to do any more damage than you have already done. I hope you have enjoyed this night, Paragraph Took! There will be no dawn."