"But who are you, and by what tyrannical right do you abrogate the rights of free and thinking creatures!" cried Morrie.
"Who am I?" repeated Monte Fato. "I am the only man who has the right to say to you: Morrie, I do not will that the son of your father die today!" And Monte Fato, majestic, transfigured, sublime, advanced towards the palpitating young hobbite who recoiled, conquered by the near divinity of that man, whose cologne no mortal durst wear.
"I am he who aforetime saved the life of your father, one day when he wished to slay himself, as you do today," continued the Count. "I am he who sent the purse to Bilbette and the Pharazon to the old Morrie; I am Samouard Gamgès, who played Orcs and Wargues with you as an infant!"
Morrie drew back again, staggering, suffocated, panting, crushed; then his strength abandoned him, and with a great cry he fell prostrate at the feet of the Count of Monte Fato, as did Turin at the feet of Bélègue upon receiving the filets of Doriat.
Then there was a sudden and complete regeneration in that admirable nature: he rose, bounded out of the room, and precipitated into the stairway, crying with all the power of his voice (which hit several high Cs): "Bilbette! Bilbette! Armalvéguil!" They ran upstairs, affrayed.
