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Up through the dark and echoing gloom as ghosts from many-tunnelled tomb, up from the mountains' roots profound and the vast menace underground, their limbs aquake with deadly fear, terror in eyes, and dread in ear, together fled they, by the beat affrighted of their flying feet.
At last before them far away they saw a glimmer, faint and grey of ghostly light that shivering fell down from the yawning gates of Hell. Then hope awoke, and straightway died – the doors were open, gates were wide; but on the threshold terror walked. The dreadful wolf awake there stalked and in his eyes the red fire glowered; there Carcharoth in menace towered, a waiting death, a biding doom: his jaws were gaping like a tomb, his teeth were bare, his tongue aflame; aroused he watched that no one came, no flitting shade nor hunted shape, seeking from Angband to escape. Now past that guard what guile or might could thrust from death into the light?
He heard afar their hurrying feet, he snuffed an odour strange and sweet; he smelled their coming long before they marked the waiting threat at door. His limbs he stretched and shook off sleep, then stood at gaze. With sudden leap upon them as they sped he sprang, and his howling in the arches rang. Too swift for thought his onset came, too swift for any spell to tame; and Beren in despair then strode past Lúthien to bar the road, unarmed, defenceless, to defend the elven-maid until the end.

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With left he caught at hairy throat, with right hand at the eyes he smote– his right, from which the radiance welled of the holy Silmaril he held. As gleam of swords in fire there flashed the fangs of Carcharoth, and crashed together like a trap, that tore the hand about the wrist, and shore through brittle bone and sinew nesh, devouring the frail mortal flesh; and in that cruel mouth unclean engulfed the jewel's holy sheen.
Against the wall then Beren reeled but still with his left he sought to shield fair Lúthien, who cried aloud to see his pain, and down she bowed in anguish sinking to the ground.