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Smeagol's heart stirred. That was the bulletin from the front; instinct told him that it was bad news that was coming. All day, with little spurts of excitement, the thought of a smashing defeat in Helms Deep had been in and out of his mind. He seemed actually to see the Mordor army swarming across the never-broken frontier and pouring down into the tip of Gondor like a column of ants. Why had it not been possible to outflank them in some way? The outline of the Fortress stood out vividly in his mind. He picked up the white knight and moved it across the board. THERE was the proper spot. Even while he saw the black horde racing southward he saw another force, mysteriously assembled, suddenly planted in their rear, cutting their comunications by land and sea. He felt that by willing it he was bringing that other force into existence. But it was necessary to act quickly. If they could get control of the whole of Rohan, if they controlled Rohan, it would cut Middle Earth in two. It might mean anything: defeat, breakdown, the redivision of the world, the destruction of Middle Earth! He drew a deep breath. An extraordinary medley of feeling--but it was not a medley, exactly; rather it was successive layers of feeling, in which one could not say which layer was undermost--struggled inside him.
The spasm passed. He put the white knight back in its place, but for the moment he could not settle down to serious study of the chess problem. His thoughts wandered again. Almost unconsciously he traced with his finger in the dust on the table:
One Ring to Rule them All, One ring to find them...
'They can't get inside you,' he had been told. But they could get inside you. 'What happens now is FOR EVER,' They had said. That was a true word. There were things, your own acts, from which you could never recover. Something was killed in your breast: burnt out, cauterized out.
...
A shrill trumpet-call had pierced the air. It was the bulletin! Victory! It always meant victory when a trumpet-call preceded the news. A sort of electric drill ran through the cafe. Even the waiters had started and pricked up their ears.
He placed his hands as if he still held the ring. A millenium it had taken him to learn what kind of power was stored away in that golden band.. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved The Ring.