The Hobbit

captain of the guard came forward.
    “And who are these?” he asked, pointing to Fili and Kili and Bilbo.
    “The sons of my father’s daughter,” answered Thorin, “Fili and Kili of the race of Durin, and Mr. Baggins who has travelled
     with us out of the West.”
    “If you come in peace lay down your arms!” said the captain.
    “We have none,” said Thorin, and it was true enough: their knives had been taken from them by the wood-elves, and the great
     sword Orcrist too. Bilbo had his short sword, hidden as usual, but he said nothing about that. “We have no need of weapons,
     who return at last to our own as spoken of old. Nor could we fight against so many. Take us to your master!”
    “He is at feast,” said the captain.
    “Then all the more reason for taking us to him,” burst in Fili, who was getting impatient at these solemnities. “We are worn and famished after our long road and we have sick comrades. Now make haste and let us have no more
     words, or your master may have something to say to you.”
    “Follow me then,” said the captain, and with six men about them he led them over the bridge through the gates and into the
     market-place of the town. This was a wide circle of quiet water surrounded by the tall piles on which were built the greater
     houses, and by long wooden quays with many steps and ladders going down to the surface of the lake. From one great hall shone
     many lights and there came the sound of many voices. They passed its doors and stood blinking in the light looking at long
     tables filled with folk.
    “I am Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror King under the Mountain! I return!” cried Thorin in a loud voice from the door, before
     the captain could say anything.
    All leaped to their feet. The Master of the town sprang from his great chair. But none rose in greater surprise than the raft-men
     of the elves who were sitting at the lower end of the hall. Pressing forward before the Master’s table they cried:
    “These are prisoners of our king that have escaped, wandering vagabond dwarves that could not give any good account of themselves,
     sneaking through the woods and molesting our people!”
    “Is this true?” asked the Master. As a matter of fact he thought it far more likely than the return of the King under the
     Mountain, if any such person had ever existed.
    “It is true that we were wrongfully waylaid by the Elvenking and imprisoned without cause as we journeyed back to our own land,” answered Thorin. “But lock nor bar may hinder the homecoming spoken of old. Nor is this
     town in the Wood-elves’ realm. I speak to the Master of the town of the Men of the Lake, not to the raft-men of the king.”
    Then the Master hesitated and looked from one to the other. The Elvenking was very powerful in those parts and the Master
     wished for no enmity with him, nor did he think much of old songs, giving his mind to trade and tolls, to cargoes and gold,
     to which habit he owed his position. Others were of different mind, however, and quickly the matter was settled without him.
     The news had spread from the doors of the hall like fire through all the town. People were shouting inside the hall and outside
     it. The quays were thronged with hurrying feet. Some began to sing snatches of old songs concerning the return of the King
     under the Mountain; that it was Thror’s grandson not Thror himself that had come back did not bother them at all. Others took
     up the song and it rolled loud and high over the lake.
    The King beneath the mountains,
        The King of carven stone,
    The lord of silver fountains
        Shall come into his own!
    His crown shall be upholden,
        His harp shall be restrung,
    His halls shall echo golden
        To songs of yore re-sung.
    The woods shall wave on mountains
        And grass beneath the sun;
    His wealth shall flow in fountains
        And the rivers golden run.
    The streams shall run in gladness,
        The lakes shall shine and burn,
    All sorrow fail and sadness
        At the Mountain-king’s return!
    So they sang, or very like that, only there was a great deal more of it, and there was much shouting as well as the music
     of harps and of fiddles mixed up with it. Indeed such excitement had not been known in the town in the memory of the oldest
     grandfather. The Wood-elves themselves began to wonder greatly and even to be afraid. They did not know of course how Thorin
     had escaped, and they began to think their king might