Night fell over the Bree-land in a blanket of frost. Streaks of dark cloud smothered star and moon like ribbons of black. But at the foot of Bree-hill many lights, orange and warm, were winking from the windows of the village houses; and in the night air there was the faint echo of merriment and cheer, and singing and dancing, as the Men of Bree celebrated Yuletide.
But beyond the fenced dike, and into the gloom of the fields, there was gathered in silence a host of dark figures. In a black rank they stood, listening to the mirth of far away Bree, until one of them spat.
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Scouring of the Shire
