The outlaws followed every order given by the Donnelandais (as they called their new leader) with joy, almost with ravishment, so clear, precise, and reasonable were his instructions. The sea was calm, and of an azure as deep as the coat of Alatar, and the silmarils of Érou illumined the heavens with the lustre of Valinor. In due course, Gamgès's desiring gaze beheld, soaring above the liquid sapphire of Ulmon, the flaming summit of the isle of Monte Fato. Strange and marvellous shapes he saw, resembling bits of lava that had cooled and lay like dragon-forms out of the Haradric Pipe-weeds. Samouard devoured with his eyes the mass of rocks that passed from vivid pink to dark blue. Never had a gambler whose entire fortune was in jeopardy experienced, at the toss of a die, such anguish as now agitated Samouard in the paroxysms of hope – nay, not the King of the Sorcerers and Éarneur at the pinochle of destiny. When the ship landed, Gamgès, despite his habitual dominion over himself, could not restrain himself from leaping to shore first; had he dared, he would have kissed the soil of the island whereof he had dreamt as one dreams of a mistress.
"I will go alone in search of game while the rest of you set up camp and fish and try out the Monte-Oiolosseo wine," he said aloud.
His companions were content with this plan, and so Gamgès, having regarded them for a moment with the sad and indulgent smile of the superior man, set out alone for the island's summit.
