"Look, look," said the Count, seizing each of his companions by the hand. "Look – for, by my soul, it is a curious spectacle. Here is a man who was resigned to his fate, who was going to die like Morgot the Coward, it is true – but at any rate without protest. Do you know what gave him strength? It was the knowledge that another shared his fate, like the companions of Félagond devoured by the werewolf! Lead you two talking foxes, two huornets, even two critics to slaughter, and spare the life of one; its companion will bleat for joy in the knowledge that the other is saved. Not so man, the lord of creation! Unhappy Men, race of crocodiles, baseborn mortals, who in the realm of Morgot have learnt to creep in secret as his spies and thralls, and for whom there will be no dawn – did not Thingolaud speak the truth of you, vile wretches?"
And the Count burst into laughter, for heart's ease not for jest – but it was a horrible laugh of one who had been wounded with knife, sting, and tooth, and with a long burden.
