return

1190 the return of the king
came out in the middle of the floor of a large round chamber.
A red lamp hung from its roof; the westward window-slit
was high and dark. Something was lying on the floor by
the wall under the window, but over it a black orc-shape
was straddled. It raised a whip a second time, but the blow
never fell.
With a cry Sam leapt across the floor, Sting in hand. The
orc wheeled round, but before it could make a move Sam
slashed its whip-hand from its arm. Howling with pain and
fear but desperate the orc charged head-down at him. Sam’s
next blow went wide, and thrown off his balance he fell
backwards, clutching at the orc as it stumbled over him.
Before he could scramble up he heard a cry and a thud. The
orc in its wild haste had tripped on the ladder-head and fallen
through the open trap-door. Sam gave no more thought to
it. He ran to the figure huddled on the floor. It was Frodo.
He was naked, lying as if in a swoon on a heap of filthy
rags: his arm was flung up, shielding his head, and across his
side there ran an ugly whip-weal.
‘Frodo! Mr. Frodo, my dear!’ cried Sam, tears almost
blinding him. ‘It’s Sam, I’ve come!’ He half lifted his master
and hugged him to his breast. Frodo opened his eyes.
‘Am I still dreaming?’ he muttered. ‘But the other dreams
were horrible.’
‘You’re not dreaming at all, Master,’ said Sam. ‘It’s real.
It’s me. I’ve come.’
‘I can hardly believe it,’ said Frodo, clutching him. ‘There
was an orc with a whip, and then it turns into Sam! Then I
wasn’t dreaming after all when I heard that singing down
below, and I tried to answer? Was it you?’
‘It was indeed, Mr. Frodo. I’d given up hope, almost. I
couldn’t find you.’
‘Well, you have now, Sam, dear Sam,’ said Frodo, and he
lay back in Sam’s gentle arms, closing his eyes, like a child at
rest when night-fears are driven away by some loved voice
or hand.