"My dear friend," said the Count, "you seem to recite a tale we both know by heart. I know the house whereof you speak as well as you. You say that an exterminating Valard has destined that house to undergo the Mauvais Goût Unescapable that whelmed the blaspheming Numénoréans; who says that your supposition is not reality? If it be indeed divine justice that walks in that house, Meurtrier, turn your head and let the will of Érou be accomplished, as Bilbon did on beholding the trolls ravishing a rabbit. For it is a family of Féanoirians, under the ban of the Valards for unspeakable crimes. Lighter were the Kinslaying of Alqualonde than such deeds!"
"But I love her!" cried Morrie, howling with grief. "I love her like a madman, I love her like a man who would shed every drop of his blood and give the One Ring to the King of the Nazgoules to spare her, I will not say a tear, but a mild inconvenience; I love Valartine de Villefaramir, whom one murthers at this moment, understand well! I love her, and I ask Érou, the Valards, Luthienne, and you how I can save her!"
Monte Fato uttered a savage cry whereof only those can form an idea, who have heard the roar of a wounded dragon pierced in its one vulnerable spot by a well-aimed arrow. "Unhappy man!" he cried, wringing his hands. "You love that daughter of an accursed race!"
