[Nilpaurion Felagund]

The Maia of Mt. Caradhras by Alexandre Dumas fils

Gandalf had returned to his house on the sixth level of Minas Tirith with Pippin, and was sitting alone wrapt in thought when the door suddenly opened. The Istar frowned.
“Ah, my Lord Denethor,” said Gandalf calmly.
“Yes, it is I,” said the Steward, with a dreadful contraction of the lips which prevented him from articulating clearly.
“I only seek to know now to what I owe the pleasure of seeing the Steward of Gondor at such an early hour,” continued Gandalf.
“You had a meeting with my son this morning, monsieur?”
“You knew about it?”
“I also know that my son had a very good reason to take the Ring, and to do his utmost to bring it to me.”
“He had, but you see that, notwithstanding these reasons, the Ring is still headed for Mt. Doom.”
“Yet he looked upon it as a weapon for our aid, and as a gift to win my heart.”
“That is true, monsieur,” said Gandalf, with dreadful calmness, “the secondary cause, but not the principal one.”
“No doubt the Halflings escaped his custody.”
“The Halflings he set free, and he even gave gifts before they left.”
“But to what do you attribute such conduct?”
“To conviction; probably he discovered there was more to it than taking the love you gave to a son whom you sent to death.”
“That may be, but you know that I would not have you stir the cup I have stirred for myself.”
“I know, and I expected all this.”
“You expected my son to be a coward?”
“Monsieur Faramir is not a coward!”
“A man who has a great weapon within his grasp is a coward if he does not take it. Oh, that my son Boromir may be there! He would have sent me a mighty gift.”
“I presume you have not come here to tell me your little family affairs,” replied Gandalf coldly. “Go and say that to Monsieur Faramir, perhaps he will know what answer to give you.”
“No, no, I have not come for that!” replied the Steward, with a smile which disappeared immediately. “I came to tell you that I know of your plans. Did you think that the eyes of the White Tower were blind?”
“Bah!” said Gandalf with exasperating coolness. “Are you not the son of Ecthelion who rejoiced at Thorongil’s departure? Are you not the Steward of the King of Gondor who used the palantír in his pride? Are you not the Lord of Minas Tirith who sent both his sons to danger? And have not all of these driven you to madness and despair, falling before your city is taken?”
“Villain! to reproach me thus!” cried the Steward. “I know well, demon that you are, that your hope is to rule in my stead, to stand behind every throne. I have read your mind and its policies. With the left hand you would use me for a while as a shield against Mordor, and with the right bring up this Ranger of the North to supplant me.
“But I say to you, Gandalf, I will not be your tool! I am a Steward of the House of Anárion. I will not bow to the last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship and dignity. Now it is the name of this upstart I wish to know, so that I may pronounce it before the men of Gondor when I reject his claim.”
One cloaked in grey came behind the Steward, and with his arms crossed, walked up to Denethor, who had wondered at this man wearing a green stone. On seeing him his teeth chattered, his legs gave way under him, and he stepped back until he found a table against which to lay his clenched hand for support.
“Denethor!” he cried, “I need but mention one of my many names to strike terror into your heart. But you guess this name, or rather you remember it, in the visions you received from the Seeing Stone, do you not? For in spite of all the hardships I endured, I show you to-day a man about to come into his own.”
With head thrown back and arms stretched out, the Steward stared against this terrible apparition in silence; then leaning against the wall for support he glided slowly along to the door through which he went out backwards, uttering but one distressing and piercing cry:
“Elessar!”
Just then two people were coming towards the house, and he had only just time to hide himself behind the open door. It was Faramir, leaning on Beregond’s arm. Beregond said:
“Come, my lord! The King is here.”
The words died away and the steps were lost in the distance. The Steward drew himself up, clinging to the walls with clenched hands, and the most terrible sob escaped him that ever came from the bosom of a father and a lord abandoned at the same time by his son and his subjects.
He went up to the seventh level of the City, and there he cast himself down the walls of the White Tower.

Wow. Movie ending.
Denethor is not like that!