“The dragon is still alive and in the halls under the Mountain then-or
I imagine so from the smoke,” said the hobbit.
     “That does not prove it,” said Balin, “though I don’t doubt you are
right. But he might be gone away some time, or he might be lying out
on the mountain-side keeping watch, and still I expect smokes and
steams would come out of the gates: all the halls within must be
filled with his foul reek.” With such gloomy thoughts, followed ever
by croaking crows above them, they made their weary way back to the
camp. Only in June they had been guests in the fair house of Elrond,
and though autumn was now crawling towards winter that pleasant time
now seemed years ago. They were alone in the perilous waste without
hope of further help. They were at the end of their journey, but as
far as ever, it seemed, from the end of their quest. None of them had
much spirit left.
     Now strange to say Mr. Baggins had more than the others. He would
often borrow Thorin’s map and gaze at it, pondering over the runes and
the message of the moon-letters Elrond had read. It was he that made
the dwarves begin the dangerous search on the western slopes for the
secret door. They moved their camp then to a long valley, narrower
than the great dale in the South where the Gates of the river stood,