In the dead night,
Frodo lay in a dream without light. Then he saw
the young moon rising; under its thin light there loomed before him a black wall of rock, pierced by a dark arch like a great gate. It seemed to Frodo that he was lifted up, and passing over he saw that the rock-wall was a circle of
hills, and that within it was a plain, and in the midst of the plain stood a pinnacle of stone, like a vast tower but not made by hands. On its top stood the figure of a man. The moon as it rose seemed to hang for a moment above his head and glistened in his white hair as the wind stirred it. Up from the dark plain below came the crying of fell voices, and the howling of many
wolves. Suddenly a shadow, like the shape of great wings, passed across the moon.
The figure lifted his arms and a light flashed from the staff that he wielded. A mighty eagle swept down and bore him away.