"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!" cried Samouard, grief-stricken. "Not when we are so close to attaining our goal of liberty!"
"Liberty, yes," said the abbé. "But not for me. It must often be so, mon cher Gamgès; when things are in danger, someone has to give them up, lose them, that others might keep them. But you are my heir; all that I have or might have had I leave to you. You will be the Count of Monte Fato, and Lord Adam Madeupname, and the abbé Glorfindoni, and Éarendeau le Marin, and perhaps more aliases that I cannot see, and you will excel so much at every field of knowledge and of human endeavour that, were you a woman, people would believe you a Marie Susanne. When you puff on your nazghouleh and imbibe the exquisite Mordeaux wine you will buy with the treasure, while being massaged by beautiful odalisques, think of me!" So saying, he lost consciousness. Samouard Gamgès tried everything that the good abbé had taught him of medicine, but in vain; Frodia was dead, or, as one says in Arnor, he had trepassé.
