"By the coifs of Luthienne!" cried Villefaramir, recoiling, terror etched on his forehead. "That voice ... it is not that of the abbé Glorfindoni!"
"Non." The abbé removed his false blond wig, shook his head, and his pointed ears (constructed of the finest mithrile) fell from his head upon the floor bescratched with orc-runes by Thibaut on the last day of his brief but entertaining life. He held up the Ring.
"It's the Count of Monte Fato!" cried Villefaramir, the eyes haggard.
"It is not even that, monsieur le steuard du roi," said the mysterious Being. "Seek further, seek better."
"That voice! Where did I hear it for the first time?"
"You heard it for the first time in Hobbitonne, twenty-three years ago, on the day of your marriage to Mlle. d'Imrahil."
"By the cravate of Tolcas, you are that implacable, hidden, mortal enemy! I did something against you in Hobbitonne, woe is me! But what did I do?" cried Villefaramir, whose mind floated already on the limit that confounds sanity and madness.
"You condemned me to a slow and hideous death, you slew my father, you stole from me love with liberty, and fortune with love; you ruined my pipe-weed!"
