towers

898 the two towers
behind him. Then presently he heard, not far ahead, a hissing
murmur.
‘Fissh, nice fissh. White Face has vanished, my precious,
at last, yes. Now we can eat fish in peace. No, not in peace,
precious. For Precious is lost; yes, lost. Dirty hobbits, nasty
hobbits. Gone and left us, gollum; and Precious is gone. Only
poor Sméagol all alone. No Precious. Nasty Men, they’ll take
it, steal my Precious. Thieves. We hates them. Fissh, nice
fissh. Makes us strong. Makes eyes bright, fingers tight, yes.
Throttle them, precious. Throttle them all, yes, if we gets
chances. Nice fissh. Nice fissh!’
So it went on, almost as unceasing as the waterfall, only
interrupted by a faint noise of slavering and gurgling. Frodo
shivered, listening with pity and disgust. He wished it would
stop, and that he never need hear that voice again. Anborn
was not far behind. He could creep back and ask him to
get the huntsmen to shoot. They would probably get close
enough, while Gollum was gorging and off his guard. Only
one true shot, and Frodo would be rid of the miserable voice
for ever. But no, Gollum had a claim on him now. The
servant has a claim on the master for service, even service in
fear. They would have foundered in the Dead Marshes but
for Gollum. Frodo knew, too, somehow, quite clearly that
Gandalf would not have wished it.
‘Sméagol!’ he said softly.
‘Fissh, nice fissh,’ said the voice.
‘Sméagol!’ he said, a little louder. The voice stopped.
‘Sméagol, Master has come to look for you. Master is here.
Come, Sméagol!’ There was no answer but a soft hiss, as of
intaken breath.
‘Come, Sméagol!’ said Frodo. ‘We are in danger. Men will
kill you, if they find you here. Come quickly, if you wish to
escape death. Come to Master!’
‘No!’ said the voice. ‘Not nice Master. Leaves poor Sméagol
and goes with new friends. Master can wait. Sméagol
hasn’t finished.’
‘There’s no time,’ said Frodo. ‘Bring fish with you. Come!’