The minstrel at Cormallen looks upon Aragorn and thinks on the men he has served.
Denethor was a good master. My leg, twisted from birth, kept me from riding a horse or stepping aside to escape a sword's blow, but he accepted me as herald.
Yet the king is a better lord still. I can see it in the sheen in his eye. I shall be proud to serve him all of my days.
What of those halflings before him? We owe them all our lives, but they would not accept such a tribute. So I shall weave them into legend. My sons' sons will learn their names.
"Praise them," I cry, "with great praise!"