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- Джон Толкин
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- Властелин колец: Возвращение короля
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- Стр. 149/277
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Softly
Sam
began
to
climb
.
He
came
to
the
guttering
torch
,
fixed
above
a
door
on
his
left
that
faced
a
window-slit
looking
out
westward
:
one
of
the
red
eyes
that
he
and
Frodo
had
seen
from
down
below
by
the
tunnel
's
mouth
.
Quickly
Sam
passed
the
door
and
hurried
on
to
the
second
storey
,
dreading
at
any
moment
to
he
attacked
and
to
feel
throttling
fingers
seize
his
throat
from
behind
.
He
came
next
to
a
window
looking
east
and
another
torch
above
the
door
to
a
passage
through
the
middle
of
the
turret
.
The
door
was
open
,
the
passage
dark
save
for
the
glimmer
of
the
torch
and
the
red
glare
from
outside
filtering
through
the
window-slit
.
But
here
the
stair
stopped
and
climbed
no
further
.
Sam
crept
into
the
passage
.
On
either
side
there
was
a
low
door
;
both
were
closed
and
locked
.
There
was
no
sound
at
all
.
"
A
dead
end
,
"
muttered
Sam
;
"
and
after
all
my
climb
!
This
ca
n't
be
the
top
of
the
tower
.
But
what
can
I
do
now
?
"
He
ran
back
to
the
lower
storey
and
tried
the
door
.
It
would
not
move
.
He
ran
up
again
,
and
sweat
began
to
trickle
down
his
face
.
He
felt
that
even
minutes
were
precious
,
but
one
by
one
they
escaped
;
and
he
could
do
nothing
.
He
cared
no
longer
for
Shagrat
or
Snaga
or
any
other
orc
that
was
ever
spawned
.
He
longed
only
for
his
master
,
for
one
sight
of
his
face
or
one
touch
of
his
hand
.
At
last
,
weary
and
feeling
finally
defeated
,
he
sat
on
a
step
below
the
level
of
the
passage-floor
and
bowed
his
head
into
his
hands
.
It
was
quiet
,
horribly
quiet
.
The
torch
,
that
was
already
burning
low
when
he
arrived
,
sputtered
and
went
out
;
and
he
felt
the
darkness
cover
him
like
a
tide
.
And
then
softly
,
to
his
own
surprise
,
there
at
the
vain
end
of
his
long
journey
and
his
grief
,
moved
by
what
thought
in
his
heart
he
could
not
tell
,
Sam
began
to
sing
.
His
voice
sounded
thin
and
quavering
in
the
cold
dark
tower
:
the
voice
of
a
forlorn
and
weary
hobbit
that
no
listening
orc
could
possibly
mistake
for
the
clear
song
of
an
Elven-lord
.
He
murmured
old
childish
tunes
out
of
the
Shire
,
and
snatches
of
Mr.
Bilbo
's
rhymes
that
came
into
his
mind
like
fleeting
glimpses
of
the
country
of
his
home
.
And
then
suddenly
new
strength
rose
in
him
,
and
his
voice
rang
out
,
while
words
of
his
own
came
unbidden
to
fit
the
simple
tune
.
In
western
lands
beneath
the
Sun
the
flowers
may
rise
in
Spring
,
the
trees
may
bud
,
the
waters
run
,
the
merry
finches
sing
.
