Gandalf ne stureð. Ant i þet ilke time, awei bihinden i sum curt burhene, coc creow. Schille ant schire he creow, ne haldende na tale of wichecreft ne weorre, bute gretende ane þen marhen þet i þe heouene feor ouer þe schadewes deaðes wes cuminde wið þe dahunge.
Ant as þah ondswerende, an oðer song com from feor awei. Hornes, hornes, hornes. I dorc Mindolluines siden ha dimliche sweide. Great hornes of þe Norð wildeliche blawende. Rohan wes ed te leaste icumen.
|
Gandalf did not move. And in that very moment, away behind in some courtyard of the City, a cock crowed. Shrill and clear he crowed, recking nothing of wizardry or war, welcoming only the morning that in the sky far above the shadows of death was coming with the dawn.
And as if in answer, there came from far away another note. Horns, horns, horns. In dark Mindolluin's sides they dimly echoed. Great horns of the North wildly blowing. Rohan had come at last.
|