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In that vast shadow once of yore Fingolfin stood: his shield he bore with field of heaven's blue and star of crystal shining pale afar. In overmastering wrath and hate desperate he smote upon that gate, the Gnomish king, there standing lone, while endless fortresses of stone engulfed the thin clear ringing keen of silver horn on baldric green. His hopeless challenge dauntless cried Fingolfin there: 'Come, open wide, dark king, your ghastly brazen doors! Come forth, whom earth and heaven abhors! Come forth, O monstrous craven lord, and fight with thine own hand and sword, thou wielder of hosts of banded thralls, thou tyrant leaguered with strong walls, thou foe of Gods and elvish race! I wait thee here. Come! Show thy face!'
Then Morgoth came. For the last time in those great wars he dared to climb from subterranean throne profound, the rumour of his feet a sound of rumbling earthquake underground. Black-armoured, towering, iron-crowned he issued forth; his mighty shield a vast unblazoned sable field with shadow like a thundercloud; and o'er the gleaming king it bowed, as huge aloft like mace he hurled that hammer of the underworld, Grond. Clanging to ground it tumbled down like a thunder-bolt, and crumbled the rocks beneath it; smoke up-started, a pit yawned, and a fire darted.
Fingolfin like a shooting light beneath a cloud, a stab of white, sprang then aside, and Ringil drew like ice that gleameth cold and blue, his sword devised of elvish skill to pierce the flesh with deadly chill. With seven wounds it rent his foe, and seven mighty cries of woe rang in the mountains, and the earth quook, and Angband's trembling armies shook. Yet Orcs would after laughing tell of the duel at the gates of hell;

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though elvish song thereof was made ere this but one – when sad was laid the mighty king in barrow high, and Thorondor, Eagle of the sky, the dreadful tidings brought and told to mourning Elfinesse of old. Thrice was Fingolfin with great blows to his knees beaten, thrice he rose still leaping up beneath the cloud aloft to hold star-shining, proud, his stricken shield, his sundered helm, that dark nor might could overwhelm till all the earth was burst and rent in pits about him. He was spent. His feet stumbled. He fell to wreck upon the ground, and on his neck a foot like rooted hills was set, and he was crushed – not conquered yet; one last despairing stroke he gave: the mighty foot pale Ringil clave about the heel, and black the blood gushed as from smoking fount in flood. Halt goes for ever from that stroke great Morgoth; but the king he broke, and would have hewn and mangled thrown to wolves devouring. Lo! from throne that Manwë bade him build on high, on peak unscaled beneath the sky, Morgoth to watch, now down there swooped Thorondor the King of Eagles, stooped, and rending beak of gold he smote in Bauglir's face, then up did float on pinions thirty fathoms wide bearing away, though loud they cried, the mighty corse, the Elven-king; and where the mountains make a ring far to the south about that plain where secret Gondolin did reign, embattled city, at great height upon a dizzy snowcap white in mounded cairn the mighty dead he laid upon the mountain's head. Never Orc nor demon after dared that pass to climb, o'er which there stared Fingolfin's high and holy tomb, till Gondolin's appointed doom.
Thus Bauglir earned the furrowed scar that his dark countenance doth mar, and thus his limping gait he gained; but afterward profound he reigned darkling upon his hidden throne; and thunderous paced his halls of stone, slow building there his vast design the world in thraldom to confine. Wielder of armies, lord of woe, no rest now gave he slave or foe;

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his watch and ward he thrice increased, his spies were sent from West to East and tidings brought from all the North, who fought, who fell; who ventured forth, who wrought in secret; who had hoard; if maid were fair or proud were lord; well nigh all things he knew, all hearts well nigh enmeshed in evil arts. Doriath only, beyond the veil woven by Melian, no assail could hurt or enter; only rumour dim of things there passing came to him. A rumour loud and tidings clear of other movements far and near among his foes, and threat of war from the seven sons of Fëanor, from Nargothrond, from Fingon still gathering his armies under hill and under tree in Hithlum's shade, these daily came. He grew afraid amidst his power once more; renown of Beren vexed his ears, and down the aisled forests there was heard great Huan baying.
Then came word most passing strange of Lúthien wild-wandering by wood and glen, and Thingol's purpose long he weighed, and wondered, thinking of that maid so fair, so frail. A captain dire, Boldog, he sent with sword and fire to Doriath's march; but battle fell sudden upon him: news to tell never one returned of Boldog's host, and Thingol humbled Morgoth's boast. Then his heart with doubt and wrath was burned: new tidings of dismay he learned, how Thu was o'erthrown and his strong isle broken and plundered, how with guile his foes now guile beset; and spies he feared, till each Orc to his eyes was half suspect. Still ever down the aisled forests came renown of Huan baying, hound of war that Gods unleashed in Valinor.
Then Morgoth of Huan's fate bethought long-rumoured, and in dark he wrought. Fierce hunger-haunted packs he had that in wolvish form and flesh were clad, but demon spirits dire did hold; and ever wild their voices rolled in cave and mountain where they housed and endless snarling echoes roused. From these a whelp he chose and fed with his own hand on bodies dead,

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on fairest flesh of Elves and Men, till huge he grew and in his den no more could creep, but by the chair of Morgoth's self would lie and glare, nor suffer Balrog, Orc, nor beast to touch him. Many a ghastly feast he held beneath that awful throne, rending flesh and gnawing bone. There deep enchantment on him fell, the anguish and the power of hell; more great and terrible he became with fire-red eyes and jaws aflame, with breath like vapours of the grave, than any beast of wood or cave, than any beast of earth or hell that ever in any time befell, surpassing all his race and kin, the ghastly tribe of Draugluin.
Him Carcharoth, the Red Maw, name the songs of Elves. Not yet he came disastrous, ravening, from the gates of Angband. There he sleepless waits; where those great portals threatening loom his red eyes smoulder in the gloom, his teeth are bare, his jaws are wide; and none may walk, nor creep, nor glide, nor thrust with power his menace past to enter Morgoth's dungeon vast.
Now, lo! before his watchful eyes a slinking shape he far descries that crawls into the frowning plain and halts at gaze, then on again comes stalking near, a wolvish shape haggard, wayworn, with jaws agape; and o'er it batlike in wide rings a reeling shadow slowly wings. Such shapes there oft were seen to roam, this land their native haunt and home; and yet his mood with strange unease is filled, and boding thoughts him seize.
'What grievous terror, what dread guard hath Morgoth set to wait, and barred his doors against all entering feet? Long ways we have come at last to meet the very maw of death that opes between us and our quest! Yet hopes we never had. No turning back!' Thus Beren speaks, as in his track he halts and sees with werewolf eyes afar the horror that there lies. Then onward desperate he passed, skirting the black pits yawning vast, where King Fingolfin ruinous fell alone before the gates of hell.

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Before those gates alone they stood, while Carcharoth in doubtful mood glowered upon them, and snarling spoke, and echoes in the arches woke: 'Hail! Draugluin, my kindred's lord! 'Tis very long since hitherward thou camest. Yea, 'tis passing strange to see thee now: a grievous change is on thee, lord, who once so dire, so daunt1ess, and as fleet as fire, ran over wild and waste, but now with weariness must bend and bow! 'Tis hard to find the struggling breath when Huan's teeth as sharp as death have rent the throat? What fortune rare brings thee back living here to fare – if Draugluin thou art? Come near! I would know more, and see thee clear.'
'Who art thou, hungry upstart whelp, to bar my ways whom thou shouldst help? I fare with hasty tidings new to Morgoth from forest-haunting Thu. Aside! for I must in; or go and swift my coming tell below!'
Then up that doorward slowly stood, eyes shining grim with evil mood, uneasy growling: 'Draugluin, if such thou be, now enter in! But what is this that crawls beside, slinking as if 'twould neath thee hide? Though winged creatures to and fro unnumbered pass here, all I know. I know not this. Stay, vampire, stay! I like not thy kin nor thee. Come, say what sneaking errand thee doth bring, thou winged vermin, to the king! Small matter, I doubt not, if thou stay or enter, or if in my play I crush thee like a fly on wall, or bite thy wings and let thee crawl.'
Huge-stalking, noisome, close he came. In Beren's eyes there gleamed a flame; the hair upon his neck uprose. Nought may the fragrance fair enclose, the odour of immortal flowers in everlasting spring neath showers that glitter silver in the grass in Valinor. Where'er did pass Tinúviel, such air there went. From that foul devil-sharpened scent its sudden sweetness no disguise enchanted dark to cheat the eyes could keep, if near those nostrils drew snuffling in doubt. This Beren knew

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upon the brink of hell prepared for battle and death. There threatening stared those dreadful shapes, in hatred both, false Draugluin and Carcharoth when, lo! a marvel to behold: some power, descended from of old, from race divine beyond the West, sudden Tinúviel possessed like inner fire. The vampire dark she flung aside, and like a lark cleaving through night to dawn she sprang, while sheer, heart-piercing silver, rang her voice, as those long trumpets keen thrilling, unbearable, unseen in the cold aisles of morn. Her cloak by white hands woven, like a smoke, like all-bewildering, all-enthralling, all-enfolding evening, falling from lifted arms, as forth she stepped, across those awful eyes she swept, a shadow and a mist of dreams wherein entangled starlight gleams.
'Sleep, O unhappy, tortured thrall! Thou woebegotten, fail and fall down, down from anguish, hatred, pain, from lust, from hunger, bond and chain, to that oblivion, dark and deep, the well, the lightless pit of sleep! For one brief hour escape the net, the dreadful doom of life forget!'
His eyes were quenched, his limbs were loosed; he fell like running steer that noosed and tripped goes crashing to the ground. Deathlike, moveless, without a sound outstretched he lay, as lightning stroke had felled a huge o'ershadowing oak.