O brother Ijim, if it is thy voice that speaks to me

“O brother Ijim, if it is thy voice that speaks to me,— Smite not thy brother Tiriel, though weary of his life. My sons have smitten me already; and, if thou smitest me, The curse that rolls over their heads will rest itself on thine. ’Tis now seven years since in my palace I beheld thy face.”

“Come, thou dark fiend, I dare thy cunning! know that Ijim scorns To smite thee in the form of helpless age and eyeless policy; Rise up, for I discern thee, and I dare thy eloquent tongue. Come, I will lead thee on thy way, and use thee as a scoff.”

“O, brother Ijim, thou beholdest wretched Tiriel: Kiss me, my brother, and then leave me to wander desolate!”

“No, artful fiend, but I will lead thee; dost thou want to go? Reply not, lest I bind thee with the green flags of the brook; Ay, now thou art discovered, I will use thee like a slave.”

When Tiriel heard the words of Ijim, he sought not to reply: He knew ’twas vain, for Ijim’s words were as the voice of Fate.

And they went on together, over hills, through woody dales, Blind to the pleasures of the sight, and deaf to warbling birds.