destruction on Ciara's head.

The sun was brilliant but without warmth. Stark shivered, and the icy
wind blew strong. The cliffs hung over him, vast and sheer and crushing,
and the narrow mouth of the pass was before him. He would go no farther.
He would turn back, now.

But he did not. He began to walk forward, into the Gates of Death.

_The light was dim and strange at the bottom of that cleft. Little veils
of mist crept and clung between the ice and the rock, thickened, became
more dense as he went farther and farther into the pass. He could not
see, and the wind spoke with many tongues, piping in the crevices of the
cliffs._

The steps of the Earthman slowed and faltered. He had known fear in his
life before. But now he was carrying the burden of two men's
terrors--Ban Cruach's, and his own.

He stopped, enveloped in the clinging mist. He tried to reason with
himself--that Ban Cruach's fears had died a million years ago, that Otar
had come this way and lived, and Balin had come also.

But the thin veneer of civilization sloughed away and left him with the
naked bones of truth. His nostrils twitched to the smell of evil, the
subtle unclean taint that only a beast, or one as close to it as he, can
sense and know. Every nerve was a point of pain, raw with apprehension.
An overpowering recognition of danger, hidden somewhere, mocking at him,
made his very body change, draw in upon itself and flatten forward, so
that when at last he went on again he was more like a four-footed thing
than a man walking upright.

Infinitely wary, silent, moving surely over the ice and the tumbled
rock, he followed Balin. He had ceased to think. He was going now on
sheer instinct.

The pass led on and on. It grew darker, and in the dim uncanny twilight
there were looming shapes that menaced him, and ghostly wings that
brushed him, and a terrible stillness that was not broken by the eerie
voices of the wind.

Rock and mist and ice. Nothing that moved or lived. And yet the sense of
danger deepened, and when he paused the beating of his heart was like
thunder in his ears.

Once, far away, he thought he heard the echoes of a man's voice crying,
but he had no sight of Balin.

The pass began to drop, and the twilight deepened into a kind of sickly
night.

On and down, more slowly now, crouching, slinking, heavily oppressed,
tempted to snarl at boulders and tear at wraiths of fog. He had no idea
of the miles he had travelled. But