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 gloaming 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 into 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