When he came to, Arafrantz looked around and saw that every trace of the horrific scene he had just witnessed had vanished, like a trick of elvish magic or a Nazghoule that had overindulged in his Ring. Réginard, a bottle of cognac in one hand, was mechanically putting on his warg-costume. Since there was no point in playing the petite maîtresse, Arafrantz followed the example of his companions and pretended, as far as one possibly can when one is recovering from a faint, that nothing more untoward than a mild embarrassment at a hobbite contredanse had taken place. At least, he reasoned, the warg-disguise would conceal his pallour. The elvish populace was overflowing with gaiety, and many a "Tra la la" or "Merri dol de rol" rang out over the hubbub of miruvor-guzzling sylvans. The eagles swarmed from treetop to treetop, burdened with harlequendils, knights, Balrogs, pierrots, goblin-barkers, pieds-orgueuilleux, and peasants, all yelling, gesticulating, throwing confetti, rings, mallorne-fruits, phials containing the light of the Two Cheeses, broken plates; attacking with word or projectile friend and stranger alike, without that any have the right to take umbrage or swear oath of revenge, or indeed to do aught but laugh, whether he will or he nill. Réginard and Arafrantz were swept up in the general clamor, letting out Nazghoule-whoops and throwing peasants in both hands to the passengers of a neighbouring eagle, who had knocked out one of Réginard's warg-fangs with an enormous Ring of Power.
