The Hobbit

roused them all again, saying:
    “There’s a regular blaze of light begun not far away—hundreds of torches and many fires must have been lit suddenly and by
     magic. And hark to the singing and the harps!”
    After lying and listening for a while, they found they could not resist the desire to go nearer and try once more to get help.
     Up they got again; and this time the result was disastrous. The feast that they now saw was greater and more magnificent than
     before; and at the head of a long line of feasters sat a woodland king with a crown of leaves upon his golden hair, very much
     as Bombur had described the figure in his dream. The elvish folk were passing bowls from hand to hand and across the fires,
     and some were harping and many were singing. Their gleaming hair was twined with flowers; green and white gems glinted on
     their collars and their belts; and their faces and their songs were filled with mirth. Loud and clear and fair were those
     songs, and out stepped Thorin in to their midst.
    Dead silence fell in the middle of a word. Out went all light. The fires leaped up in black smokes. Ashes and cinders were
     in the eyes of the dwarves, and the wood was filled again with their clamour and their cries.
    Bilbo found himself running round and round (as he thought) and calling and calling: “Dori, Nori, Ori, Oin, Gloin, Fili, Kili,
     Bombur, Bifur, Bofur, Dwalin, Balin, Thorin Oakenshield,” while people he could not see or feel were doing the same all round him (with an occasional “Bilbo!” thrown in). But the cries of the others got
     steadily further and fainter, and though after a while it seemed to him they changed to yells and cries for help in the far
     distance, all noise at last died right away, and he was left alone in complete silence and darkness.
    That was one of his most miserable moments. But he soon made up his mind that it was no good trying to do anything till day
     came with some little light, and quite useless to go blundering about tiring himself out with no hope of any breakfast to
     revive him. So he sat himself down with his back to a tree, and not for the last time fell to thinking of his far-distant
     hobbit-hole with its beautiful pantries. He was deep in thoughts of bacon and eggs and toast and butter when he felt something
     touch him. Something like a strong sticky string was against his left hand, and when he tried to move he found that his legs
     were already wrapped in the same stuff, so that when he got up he fell over.
    Then the great spider, who had been busy tying him up while he dozed, came from behind him and came at him. He could only
     see the thing’s eyes, but he could feel its hairy legs as it struggled to wind its abominable threads round and round him.
     It was lucky that he had come to his senses in time. Soon he would not have been able to move at all. As it was, he had a
     desperate fight before he got free. He beat the creature off with his hands—it was trying to poison him to keep him quiet,
     as small spiders do to flies—until he remembered his sword and drew it out. Then the spider jumped back, and he had time to cut his legs loose. After that it was his turn to attack. The spider
     evidently was not used to things that carried such stings at their sides, or it would have hurried away quicker. Bilbo came
     at it before it could disappear and stuck it with his sword right in the eyes. Then it went mad and leaped and danced and
     flung out its legs in horrible jerks, until he killed it with another stroke; and then he fell down and remembered nothing
     more for a long while.
    There was the usual dim grey light of the forest-day about him when he came to his senses. The spider lay dead beside him,
     and his sword-blade was stained black. Somehow the killing of the giant spider, all alone by himself in the dark without the
     help of the wizard or the dwarves or of anyone else, made a great difference to Mr. Baggins. He felt a different person, and
     much fiercer and bolder in spite of an empty stomach, as he wiped his sword on the grass and put it back into its sheath.
    “I will give you a name,” he said to it, “and I shall call you
Sting
.”
    After that he set out to explore. The forest was grim and silent, but obviously he had first of all to look for his friends,
     who were not likely to be very far off, unless they had been made prisoners by the elves (or worse things). Bilbo felt that
     it was unsafe to shout, and he stood a long