towers

the window on the west 883
it were so. We do not want the escapes of Mirkwood in
Ithilien.’ Sam fancied that he gave a swift glance towards the
hobbits as he spoke; but Sam said nothing. For a while he
and Frodo lay back and watched the torchlight, and the men
moving to and fro speaking in hushed voices. Then suddenly
Frodo fell asleep.
Sam struggled with himself, arguing this way and that. ‘He
may be all right,’ he thought, ‘and then he may not. Fair
speech may hide a foul heart.’ He yawned. ‘I could sleep for
a week, and I’d be better for it. And what can I do, if I do
keep awake, me all alone, and all these great Men about?
Nothing, Sam Gamgee; but you’ve got to keep awake all the
same.’ And somehow he managed it. The light faded from
the cave door, and the grey veil of falling water grew dim and
was lost in gathering shadow. Always the sound of the water
went on, never changing its note, morning or evening or
night. It murmured and whispered of sleep. Sam stuck his
knuckles in his eyes.
Now more torches were being lit. A cask of wine was
broached. Storage barrels were being opened. Men were
fetching water from the fall. Some were laving their hands in
basins. A wide copper bowl and a white cloth were brought
to Faramir and he washed.
‘Wake our guests,’ he said, ‘and take them water. It is time
to eat.’
Frodo sat up and yawned and stretched. Sam, not used to
being waited on, looked with some surprise at the tall man
who bowed, holding a basin of water before him.
‘Put it on the ground, master, if you please!’ he said. ‘Easier
for me and you.’ Then to the astonishment and amusement
of the Men he plunged his head into the cold water and
splashed his neck and ears.
‘Is it the custom in your land to wash the head before
supper?’ said the man who waited on the hobbits.
‘No, before breakfast,’ said Sam. ‘But if you’re short
of sleep cold water on the neck’s like rain on a wilted