Immediately, though everything else remained as before, dim and dark, the shapes became
terribly clear. He was able to see beneath their black wrappings. There were five tall
figures: two standing on the lip of the dell, three advancing. In their white faces burned
keen and merciless eyes; under their mantles were long grey robes; upon their grey hairs
were helms of silver; in their haggard hands were swords of steel. Their eyes fell on him
and pierced him, as they rushed towards him.
Desperate, he drew his own
sword, and it seemed to him that it flickered red, as if it were a firebrand. Two of the
figures halted. The third was taller than the others: his hair was long and gleaming and
on his helm was a crown. In one hand he held a long sword, and in the other a knife; both
the knife and the hand that held it glowed with a pale light. He sprang forward and bore
down on Frodo.
At that moment Frodo threw himself forward on the ground, and he heard himself crying
aloud: O Elbereth! Githoniel! At the same time he struck at the feet of his enemy. A
shrill cry rang out in the night; and he felt a pain like a dart of poisoned ice pierce
his left shoulder. Even as he swooned he caught, as through a swirling mist, a glimpse of
Strider leaping out of the darkness with a flaming brand of wood in either hand. With a
last effort Frodo, dropping his sword, slipped the Ring from his finger and closed his
right hand tight upon it.
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