Far above the Hill in the West the night-sky was dim and pale. There, peeping among the cloud-wrack not quite blown to pieces after the storm, Sam saw a white star. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up, and like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end what troubled him was only a small and passing thing: one day, as Frodo had promised, they would meet again.

‘D’you think he’s looking at that same star?’ Rosie whispered at his side as her fingers twined with his.

‘I’m sure of it.’