"'No,' said Pérégrin, making an effort to rise. 'And it is a plot hatched by my enemies, a Sharcoléonist rumor, a legend of Rohan, a lie of Christophe Trolquien.'
"'You do not recognise me!' cried Shélobe. 'Eh bien, I, happily, recognise you! You are Pippand de Touc, the Arnorian officer who instructed the troops of my noble father. It is you who delivered the castle of Quirithe-Oungallant! It is you who, sent to Minas-Morgoule to negotiate for the life of your benefactor, brought back a false decree according full pardon! It is you who, with this decree, obtained the ring of the Pasha and deceived Babar, the guardian of the fire, and stabbed him! It is you who sold us, me and my mother, to Pougue! Assassin! Ferengoil! Robber of the North! The blood of your master stains your forehead! Let all behold! My mother,' she continued, 'said to me, Remember this man who has enslaved you and placed the head of your father upon a pike and used it as a golphimboule! Look well upon the scar on his right hand, in the shape of a balrogue wing; if you forget his face, remember him by this hand wherein fell the pieces of gold of the merchant Pougue! If I recognise him! Let him dare now to tell me he does not recognise me!'
"Each word fell like Narsile upon Pérégrin and cut off a parcel of his energy; at these last words, he concealed quickly and despite himself his hand in his military coat; and fell back onto his chair, abysmed by a despair darker than the heart of Pierre-Jacques the betrayer of Trolquien or than the négligée of Oungolianne.
