The end of the voyage was approaching, and Arafrantz beheld white shores and beyond them a green country under a swift sunset. He heard a sweet singing in his mind, but soon perceived that it was the captain practicing a ribald sea-shanty. Arafrantz reflected that, though the island bore a very religious name, it was not one that promised a warmer welcome than that it had extended to Arafrantz's remote ancestor Isildour in the depths of time.
Arafrantz contemplated anew the appropinquating marge. That mass of stones, like the giant Adoûnachor, loomed menacing before the boat, blocking the aforesaid swift sunset – which in any case was swift, and soon left the island enveloped in a darkness unescapable, as it were a broil of fume from the Mountain of Fire sent to darken hearts. And à propos of fire ... "Parbleu, there is too much black and red on this isle," said Arafrantz. "It is evidently not the Champs-Valinorées."
"Non, monsieur," replied the captain. "But it is more important that the fire and shadow indicate the probable presence of the Fantômes whereof I spoke earlier."
"Bha," said Arafrantz, loading silver bullets into his pistols with perfect sang-froid. "Let us ask hospitality of these Fantômes du Ring. You are acquainted with them?"
"Yes, monsieur. We sometimes handle rings for them, to keep ourselves in stash for the summer months. After all, it's not their fault they're Fantômes, but that of the authorities, for levying such heavy taxes on magical items."
