The leading orcs came loping along,
panting, holding their heads down.

They were a gang
of the smaller breeds

being driven unwilling

to their Dark Lord’s wars;
all they cared for was
to get the march over
and escape the whip.

Beside them,
running up and down the line,
went two of the large fierce uruks,
cracking lashes and shouting.
File after file passed,
and the tell-tale torchlight
was already some way ahead.

Sam held his breath.
Now more than half the line had gone by.
Then suddenly one of the slave-drivers
spied the two figures by the road-side.
He flicked a whip at them and yelled:
‘Hi, you! Get up!’

They did not answer,
and with a shout
he halted the whole company.