The Russian story book

The Ingle Nook Series

THE RUSSIAN STORY BOOK

MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited

LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA MELBOURNE

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO DALLAS · SAN FRANCISCO

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd.

TORONTO

Falcon the Hunter (p. [64])

THE
RUSSIAN STORY BOOK

CONTAINING TALES FROM THE SONG-CYCLES OF KIEV AND NOVGOROD AND OTHER EARLY SOURCES

RETOLD BY
RICHARD WILSON
AUTHOR OF “THE INDIAN STORY BOOK”
WITH SIXTEEN COLOURED PLATES AND LINE ILLUSTRATIONS FROM DRAWINGS BY
FRANK C. PAPÉ

MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON
1916

COPYRIGHT

PREFACE

I have gone right into the heart of “Holy Russia,” to Kiev and Novgorod and the borders of the Caspian, in an endeavour to show by means of some of the early legends the ideals and point of view of the Russian nation while it was in the process of being made. The stories of the song-cycles of Kiev and Novgorod tell of a barbaric, though not a barbarian, world, full of high colour and spirited action, of the knock-down blow followed quickly by the hand of friendship freely extended to pick up the fallen foeman—if indeed he has had the hardihood to survive.

The land of Vladimir and Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck is a Christian land, with the Christianity of the Greek Church, and it is before all else an Easter land, where the Christian Festival of the Resurrection means infinitely more than it can ever do in countries which are not ice-bound for several winter months. The country is, moreover, an outpost of Christianity towards the East—uninfluenced by Renaissance or Reformation—and must therefore have developed interesting characteristics entirely different from those of Western lands. I think that such characteristics are clearly shown in these stories, but I must leave those of my older readers who are interested in this matter to find them out and to discover the Arthur, Guinevere and Galahad of Russia; for my first concern is to tell a tale which will please healthy-minded boys and girls in their early teens.

This book might have been written by a Russian who thoroughly understands our language, or by an English author who has spent the best part of a lifetime in studying Russia and the Russians, illustrated by a native artist, and decorated by a Russian designer. When such a volume does appear, it will have a great interest for me. Meanwhile, I submit that there is some artistic unity, also, in a volume of Russian stories, written by an Englishman, illustrated by an English artist, and decorated by an English designer, the whole production being for an English child.

One cannot delve far into these folk-lore records without becoming indebted to Miss I. F. Hapgood’s English renderings from the collections of Kirshá Danilóv, P. B. Kirýeevsky, A. T. Gillferding, Rybnikof, P. A. Bezsónof and others, published in New York in 1885; to J. Curtin’s literal translations from the Naródniya Rússyika Shazki of A. N. Afanásieva; to W. R. S. Ralston’s books on Russian folk-song and fable; and to the writings of the Hon. Maurice Baring and Mr. Stephen Graham. To all of these I desire to express my indebtedness for help and guidance, though the responsibility for the telling and interpretation of the tales is entirely my own. If this little collection makes the British child more sympathetic towards Russia and helps it to understand the Russian people to a small degree its purpose will have been achieved.

R. W.

Hampstead, 1915.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

IN COLOUR

At the fountain which burst forth beneath the hoofs of Cloudfall, fierce Bears still come to quaff the waters and gain heroic strength.

ILYA AND CLOUDFALL

For thirty years Ilya sat upon the stove in his mother’s cottage, for he was a helpless cripple without arms or legs, and really of no use to any one, either in the house or out of it. But when these quiet years were past and over, Ilya came to his own, as you shall see.

One summer day his father and mother took down the wooden rakes and went out into the sunny meadow round which the tall pines stood to help to make the hay; and Ilya was left alone in the cottage with his thoughts.

All at once he heard a deep voice at the door which said, “In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.” “Amen,” responded Ilya at once, and three wayfarers entered after bowing at the threshold. They were old and venerable, and Ilya knew them at once to be singers of holy psalms, who never lacked food and drink among the peasants whose lives they cheered. So, when they asked him for something to drink, he spoke gently to them, partly, however, because he feared the result of their displeasure.

“Venerable masters,” he said, “whatever is within the house is yours, but, to my sorrow, I cannot rise to wait upon you.” Then the holy men looked steadily at him, and before their steadfast gaze Ilya’s eyes fell in humility as before the Holy Cross; and as he looked downwards they said to him, “Arise and wash yourself, for you shall be able to walk and to wait upon us.”

Somehow, Ilya seemed to obey them in spite of himself. He got down from the stove and walked with the legs of a full-grown man of mighty stature. Then stretching out his brawny arms he took the cup, filled it with the drink of the rye, and offered it to the holy guests on bended knee. They took it from him, drank one after the other, and gave it to him again, saying, “Drink in your turn, Ilya.” The young man obeyed without a word, and then awaited the further pleasure of the visitors.

“Ilya, son of weakness,” they said, “how is it with your strength?”

“I thank you with reverence, venerable sirs,” he replied, bowing low before them, “my strength is now such as could surely move the earth.”

The old men turned from him and regarded each other with a look of wisdom so pure and clear and like a shaft of brightest sunlight that Ilya’s eyes sought the earthen floor of the cottage once again.

Then one of the guests, who seemed to be the leader, said in a quiet voice of authority, “Give us to drink once more,” and Ilya obeyed without question. “Drink now yourself, Ilya,” they said, and he did so.

“Ilya, son of weakness,” they said, “how is it now with your strength?”

“I thank you with reverence, venerable sirs,” he said, “my strength is great, but only half the strength I had.”

“That is well,” said the old men; “if it were greater, then moist Mother Earth would be too frail to bear you.”

Then the old men told Ilya to go out into the summer sunlight, and he walked out of the cottage for the first time, followed by his deliverers; and there, standing in the light, the young man received his blessing and his charge.

“Ilya, son of strength,” they said, “it is God Himself who has redeemed you from weakness. Therefore you are bound to defend the faith of Christ against all unbelievers, however bold and daring they may be, remembering always that it is not written that you should come to your death in battle.

“In the whole white world there is none stronger than you except Svyatogor, whom you will meet before long. Avoid conflict with him, and him alone; do not spend your strength on the soil or the meadow or the forest, but set out without delay for the royal city of Kiev.”

Having spoken these words, the old men vanished, and Ilya did not see either how or where they went. He only knew that he stood alone in the light of the sun, and he stretched out his great arms as if he had just awakened from a long refreshing sleep.

Then the young giant went to seek his father and mother, and found them resting in the shade of the pine trees by the side of the meadow. The whole company was asleep, and taking up one of their axes, Ilya began to hew at the trunks of the pines. It is a matter for wonder that the sound of the crashing trunks which was soon heard did not immediately awake the sleepers, for the young man laid about him lustily during the space of an hour, and at the end of that time had felled a small wood about the extent of a field; which is really not so very marvellous after all, seeing that he had been storing up strength for thirty years. When he had finished this work he drove all the axes lying near the sleepers into a tree-stump with a quiet laugh. “Ah,” he said to himself, “they must ask me for these axes if they wish to use them again.”

After a while the young man’s parents and their labourers awoke from sleep, for by his tree-felling Ilya had taken away the shade, and the hot sunlight was now beating full upon their faces. With blinking eyes they looked around, and when they saw the fallen timber and the axes deeply embedded in the stump of a tree, they began somewhat slowly to be filled with very great wonder, and said to one another, “Who has done this?”

Then Ilya came out of the forest where he had been hiding and enjoying their awakening. The men were now trying in vain to draw out the axes, and he took them easily from the stump, and handed them to the wondering servants without a word being spoken on either side; for the labourers were too much dazed to break the silence by speech.

For a few moments the father and mother gazed at the tall young man, the eyes of the former dwelling upon his stature, his strong limbs, and his mighty shoulders, while the mother gazed steadfastly at the face of her son, which was radiant with a wonderful light. Then, clasping his hands and closing his eyes, the old man gave thanks to God that he should be the father of so splendid a workman; but Ilya showed no sign of continuing in his peasant’s task, for with a low bow of reverence to his parents, he strode away without a word across the open plain.

His mother watched him go in silence, and then she bowed her head as before the Holy Cross; for the light which she had seen in the young man’s eyes never shone in the eyes of a woodman or of one content to spend the summer day making hay in the pine-encircled meadow.

Now, as Ilya went on his way he saw a peasant walking heavily across a field, leading a shaggy brown foal, and, in spite of his manhood, this was the first foal that Ilya had ever seen. He suddenly felt a great desire to have this shaggy steed for himself, and having money in his pocket—though how it had got there he could not tell—he soon made the purchase. He paid little attention to the price asked by the greedy, crafty peasant, which was large enough as a plain matter of horse-dealing, for Ilya was no bargain driver.

“Now,” he said to himself, as he patted the shaggy mane of the little horse, “I must take three months to make this brown foal into a charger; so for that time, at least, I must dwell at home.” He therefore turned back to his father’s cottage, and, to the quiet delight of his mother, lived there for the time he had appointed. Ilya did not think out his plans for himself at this time, but had a curious feeling that his way was being made plain before him without his will.

The foal was at once tied up in the beast-stall in his father’s stable, and fed on the finest white Turkish wheat to the great surprise of the old man, who, however, made no remark, for the strange things now happening in his household were rather too much for him. When the shaggy brown foal had been fed for three months in this careful and very extravagant way, Ilya left it for three nights in the garden so that the Powers of Heaven might anoint it with three successive dews. After this, he made a trial of the horse, which was now very strong and frisky, and found that it had become a truly heroic charger, capable of trotting and galloping, and while full of fire and spirit, obedient to its master’s lightest word. To this charger Ilya gave the name of Cloudfall, and he now made preparations for setting out on his adventures.

ILYA MEETS SVYATOGOR AND PARTS WITH HIM

Ilya rose early one morning, dressed himself in his best, and respectfully informed his parents that he wished to leave his home. The old people, who now felt that it would be very unwise, as well as useless, to interfere in the proceedings of their wonderful son, gave him their blessing. His father then went off to his duties with a grunt, and his mother turned to her cooking on the stove with a sigh; for the stove always reminded her of the cripple boy who had been of no use to any one.

Meanwhile Ilya had saddled his good steed Cloudfall, and in a short time had ridden far across the open plain. As night was falling he came to a large tent of fair white linen which had been set up near a spreading oak tree. Peeping into this pavilion, he saw a huge bed with the skins turned down, the pillow smoothed, and everything ready for rest. So he fastened Cloudfall to the oak, crept into the bed, and fell into a deep slumber which lasted for three days and three nights.

On the third day of the sleep of Ilya, Cloudfall raised his head from his grazing and pricked up his ears, for out of the north came a noise like an earthquake. Moist Mother Earth rocked from side to side, the tall pines shook and staggered as if they were about to fall headlong, and the water of the river suddenly heaved and then overflowed its banks. Roused by the sound, the intelligent animal beat loudly with his hoof upon the earth in the hope of rousing Ilya; but the young man slept the sleep of a tired child.

Then Cloudfall put his head through the opening of the tent and snouted above the storm in the speech of Holy Russia, “Ho, ho! Ilya, do you sleep there and take your ease, unmindful of the great misfortune that threatens to o’erwhelm you? The hero Svyatogor is coming to his pavilion where you lodge unasked. Loose me, and let me take to the open plain, and as for yourself, climb up at once into the tall oak tree on the top of yonder hillock.”

It would have been too wonderful if Ilya had slept when this strange voice sounded in his ear. Up he sprang, fresh from his slumber and wide awake at once, as every young and healthy person must be who has slept well, loosed the thong which bound Cloudfall to the oak, and climbed without further delay into the branches of the tree on the hillock.

When he looked down, he saw Svyatogor for the first time, and there could be no doubt that he was a hero. He was taller than the trees of the wood, and his flowing locks seemed to be somewhat confused with the flying clouds. Upon his broad shoulder he carried a casket of crystal, and when he drew near to the pavilion by the first oak tree, he stooped and set it gently upon the ground and opened it with a key of gold.

The crystal door swung back without a sound, and out stepped the wife of the hero. In all the white world no beauty like this had ever been seen or told. She was tall and stately, but she stepped as daintily as a white hind. Her eyes were clear and steady as those of the falcon, her eyebrows were as black as a starless night, and the whiteness of her skin dazzled the eyes of Ilya in his oak.

As soon as she had stepped out from the crystal casket, she prepared the table for her lord, spreading upon it a cloth of lawn with drawn thread-work as white as Russia in winter, and placing upon it sweetmeats of various kinds. Then she stepped back to her crystal casket and brought out a flagon, wondrously fashioned, containing mead, whose strength assailed the nostrils of Ilya in his oak on the hillock with a power which passed right through him. In a few moments she sat down with her husband, and the two ate and drank while the laughter of the hero shook the trunk of Ilya’s oak and the gentle murmur of his fair companion’s merriment rustled the leaves in a tender whisper.

When Svyatogor had eaten well and drunk better, he went into the pavilion, lay down on the broad bed and fell fast asleep. But his beautiful wife roamed about in the open plain, singing softly to herself; and as she walked about she happened to look up, and saw Ilya, who was gazing at her so steadfastly that he seemed to be nothing but eyes.

“Come down,” cried the hero’s wife; “come down, good and stately youth. Come down out of the damp oak, or I will tell my husband that you have been unkind to me.” Now it was not in Ilya’s nature to be unkind to any one, so without further words he slipped nimbly down the trunk of the oak; and as soon as he touched the lap of moist Mother Earth, the woman popped him into the pocket of the sleeping hero, and by so doing roused the latter from his heavy sleep.

The hero stretched himself, yawned, and sat up blinking, for he was not so young as Ilya, and therefore did not wake so readily. Then he arose, placed his wife in the crystal casket, locked it with the golden key, mounted upon his horse, and took his way towards the Holy Mountains.

As the hero rode onward his horse began to bend at the knees and then to stumble, whereupon Svyatogor beat him soundly with a silken whip. The animal stopped short, turned his head and said to his master in a human voice, “I was proud enough to carry a hero and his heroic wife, casket and all, but when I am obliged to add another hero to my load, it is not surprising if I stumble.”

‘“Come down,” cried the hero’s wife’

Svyatogor looked round, and for the first time was aware of his bulging pocket. A little further investigation showed him that he was carrying a fine young man with broad shoulders, on which was set the unmistakable head of a hero. In a moment he had drawn Ilya from his deep pocket and was holding him aloft while he questioned him with knitted brows.

“Whence come you, young man?” he cried, and at the sound of that terrible voice the mountains shook, the forests waved, and the river found that its usual channel was not steady enough to contain it, while it occurred to Ilya that it would be best to tell the truth. So he said boldly enough, though his position could scarcely be described as dignified:

“It was the noble lady in the crystal casket who bade me come down from the oak, and who placed me in the pocket of your hero-ship.” Then the youth’s eyes were filled with terror, for a fierce frown suddenly creased the brows of Svyatogor, who turned in his saddle, after having seated Ilya before him, and hurled the crystal casket into the rushing, rocking stream.

“Lie there, faithless one,” he shouted; “it was surely of little avail to take you out locked up in a glass case if you were to speak to the first goodly young man you meet.” Then with a huge gesture of disgust he urged on his steed and took his way along the side of a rocky mountain, talking pleasantly to Ilya as if nothing had happened out of the ordinary. He asked the young man about his parents, his home, and the dearest wish of his heart, which he found was to meet himself, the famous hero Svyatogor.

“Yes, I am he,” said the rider as lightly as his huge size permitted, “and I would gladly come among you people of Holy Russia, but moist Mother Earth is too soft to bear me up, and I am forced to ride on the rocky crags and high precipices of the great mountains which are strong enough to bear the weight of myself and my steed. I will take you with me to the Holy Mountains, for you are a young man after my own heart.” And as they rode onward he told Ilya how a hero lived and how he did the deeds which roused the wonder and the fear of all men.

Suddenly Svyatogor said to Ilya, “When we come to my home, I will present you to my father. But before you meet him you must take care to heat a piece of iron in the stove, and when he comes with outstretched hand to greet you, take further care not to place your hand within his own, but let him grasp the heated iron.”

Ilya promised to follow the instructions of his friend, and before long they came across the craggy peaks to the Holy Mountains, and on the summit of one of them Ilya saw a wonderful palace of white stone. The hero rode forward to the gateway, where he was met by his aged father, whose beard swept his knees like a snow-drift. “Welcome, my dear child,” said the old man, to whose tenderness the giant on the mighty steed was still a loving youngster. “Welcome, and thrice welcome! Have you been far afield?”

“I have been in Holy Russia, my father,” was the reply. “And what saw you in Holy Russia?” asked the old man. “Nothing but melting snow and moist land,” said Svyatogor, “too moist indeed for the feet of my steed. But stay, I did meet with some one of note, and I have brought him with me.”

The old man quickly raised his head, but the movement was merely one of habit, for his eyes were sightless. Sadly he dropped his chin once more upon his breast, and said, “Bring to me the hero of Holy Russia that I may greet him.”

In the meantime Ilya had found a piece of iron, and having also found a furnace near the gate-way, he quickly made the iron red-hot. Then he grasped the glowing metal in his hand and went forward to greet the blind father of his friend. The old man held out his hand, but Ilya did not clasp it. He placed in its palm the red-hot iron which the old man grasped as if it had been the hand of a friend returned after a long journey. As he felt its burning glow he said, “Thy hands are the hands of a hero, O Ilya, son of strength. Now you are indeed worthy to become the younger brother of Svyatogor. Come within the palace of white stone and rest until the call comes, which comes to all true men of deeds, to sally forth upon yet another journey of adventure.”

So Ilya and his elder brother went into the palace of white stone and rested as long as they could, which was not really long, for one morning the sun shone and each found the other at the gate looking with longing eyes upon the world.

Now as he looked outward, Ilya saw to his surprise and pleasure that a horse was feeding near the outer wall of the palace of white stone. He looked more closely and found to his great delight that it was none other than his own good steed Cloudfall. Quickly he ran to the horse and gaily he greeted it, and before long he was mounted upon its back and racing to and fro over the moist grass before the palace of white stone. As he reached the gate for the third time, he found Svyatogor mounted also, and ready to set out with him in search of adventure. Then they rode out along the ridge of the Holy Mountains, and before long they came to a great casket with a lid lying by its side, and upon the lid was written the inscription, “This casket shall fit him for whom it has been hewn from the rock.”

The inscription was a plain invitation to one of adventurous spirit, and in a moment Ilya had leapt from his horse and lay at full length within the casket. But it was too long and too wide for him, and he rose saying, “It is not for me that this casket was hewn from the rock.”

“The casket was meant for me,” said Svyatogor, quietly stepping into it and lying down. His words were true enough, for his heroic body fitted it as if he had been measured for it. “Take the cover, Ilya,” he said, “and lay it over me.” But his younger brother had no desire to perform an entombment of this kind and he said:

“I will not lift the cover, elder brother, and shut you up in such a manner. Surely you would amuse yourself with what is to me a jest of the poorest kind, if you would prepare for your burial in this way!”

Svyatogor spoke not a word, but reaching forth his hands lifted the lid and covered the casket with it. Then he tried to raise it again, but found that it was easier to get into such a casket than to get out of it. He strove with all his mighty strength to lift the lid, but even this was of no avail, and he cried out through an aperture which still remained between the cover and the side of the casket, “Alas, my brother! It is clear that Fate, who is stronger than heroes, has entangled me at last. I cannot raise the lid. Try to lift it and live to say that you have rescued the prince of heroes.”

Ilya thereupon put forth all his strength but, strong as he was, he could not raise the lid. “Take my great battle-sword,” said Svyatogor, “and strike a blow across the cover.” Ilya grasped the sword, which his brother had unbuckled, before he lay down, but was not able to raise it from the earth, so great was its weight. “I cannot lift it,” he said in disgust and despair, “to say nothing of wielding it.” “Bend down to this rift,” replied his elder brother, “that I may breathe upon you with my heroic breath.” Ilya obeyed the command, and when Svyatogor had breathed warmly upon him, he felt new strength rise within him, so that he was three times the man he had been.

He was now able to raise the sword and struck the lid of the casket a mighty blow, so that all the Holy Mountains re-echoed with the sound. Sparks of flame leapt from the lid of the casket, and an iron ridge was formed upon the stone in the path of that tremendous stroke, so as to strengthen the cover rather than weaken it.

“I stifle, younger brother,” cried the imprisoned hero. “Try the effect of another blow upon the lid of the fatal casket.” Then Ilya smote the cover lengthwise, and the sound of the blow re-echoed more loudly among the Holy Mountains; but the only effect was to raise another ridge of iron upon the lid. Again the imprisoned hero spoke imploringly.

“I die, little brother. Bend down again so that I may breathe once more upon you, and this time give you all my heroic strength.”

Then Ilya spoke, and as the words came from his lips he felt as if a voice within him framed them in despite of his own desires.

“My strength is enough, elder brother; if I had more, then moist Mother Earth would not be able to bear me.”

“You have done well, younger brother,” said the voice of Svyatogor, “in that you have disobeyed my last command. Had I breathed upon you again, it would have been with the breath of death. And now, farewell! Take my great battle-sword, which you have fairly won, but tether my good steed to my iron-bound tomb. None but Svyatogor may ride that horse.”

Then Svyatogor spoke no more, and stooping to the crevice Ilya was no longer able to hear the whisper of his breathing. So he bound the good steed to the casket, girt the great battle-sword about his waist, and rode forth upon Cloudfall into the open plain. But as he turned away, he saw the tears of the imprisoned Svyatogor flowing in a crystal stream through the crevice in the iron-bound casket on the lonely hills.

ILYA AND NIGHTINGALE THE ROBBER

This is the story of the first of the nightingales, those sweet singers of the evening, each of whom, as the old books tell with certainty, sprang from a poppy seed. And the sower of the first seeds of the blood-red poppy was Ilya the Old Cossáck, who rode the shaggy bay steed Cloudfall.

As for Cloudfall, the shaggy bay steed, it is well that you should try to picture him to yourselves. He had a mane of very great length, and a tail ten times as long as his mane, while the shaggy hair of his rough coat was of three colours or tints. He wore a bridle of leather plaited so as to be of enormous strength, twelve saddle-cloths and twelve felts (so cold it was in Holy Russia), and over these coverings a strong leather saddle bound with metal. He had twelve girths made of finest silk, not for display and youthful vanity, but for strength and easiness of movement. His stirrups were of engraved steel brought from Damascus, where the good sword blades are marked with strange devices; the buckles were of bronze which moist Mother Earth is not able to rust, and which no amount of hard wear can in the least affect. Such was Cloudfall the shaggy bay steed of Ilya the Old Cossáck.

One Easter morning Ilya took his way to church to greet his risen Master; and as he stood before the altar in the warm glow which lighted up the sanctuary, he vowed a mighty vow, “I will sing at High Mass on this very Easter Day in the royal town of Kiev, and I will go to Kiev by the straight way.”

For a few moments Ilya stood in deep silence before the altar, as if pausing to gather strength. Then he vowed a second vow, and it was to this effect—as he took the straight way to the royal town of Kiev he would not stain his hand, nor yet the blade of his good keen sword with the blood of the accursed Tatars, the enemies of Holy Russia. A second time he stood in deep silence, as if pausing to gather still more strength. Then he vowed a third vow with his hand upon his mace of steel, and it was to the effect that though he would go by the straight way he would not make use of his fiery darts.

After a third space of silence Ilya left the church and came into the courtyard, where his shaggy bay steed Cloudfall was awaiting him to take the heroic journey to the city of Prince Vladimir, the Royal Sun of Kiev. A few wondering peasants saw Ilya as he strode across the courtyard, but as soon as he was mounted upon Cloudfall they saw him no more, so swift was the movement of the shaggy bay steed. Their eyes tried to follow his flight—for it was no gallop—but they seemed to see only a smoke-wreath upon the open plain, or a swift movement like that of a swirl of snow across the wind-swept steppe.

Over the grass skimmed Cloudfall, and over the lakes and rivers, while his long tail streamed behind him like that of a comet in the midnight sky; high above the lofty forests he soared, even above the oaks which had stood there since the days before history dawned, yet he kept lower than the drifting clouds; from mountain summit to mountain summit he sprang, and in leaping along the low hill-ranges he missed many of the tops in his flight; and wherever his hoofs fell, springs of water gushed forth from the rock, but when he alighted on the open plain smoke rose beneath his hoofs, wavered for a moment, and then ascended in a steady column towards the clouds. It was a ride or a flight to be remembered for all time, and Ilya himself was not forgetful of this. For he stopped his shaggy bay steed near a forest, felled two mighty trees with his mace, and erected a rough cross on which he carved with his keen sword the following inscription: “Ilya the Old Cossáck rides to Royal Kiev on his first heroic quest.” Then he went again upon his wonderful way.

Now when he drew near to the city of Chernigof, he saw before him a great host of Tatars, the enemies of Holy Russia, marshalled under three princes, each of whom commanded forty thousand men. From their crowd of warlike steeds there arose a cloud of steam so dense that it hid the sun by day and the moon by night. When Ilya saw this great host before him he remembered his vows, leapt quickly to the earth, and knelt at the right foot of Cloudfall.

“Lend me your aid, my shaggy bay steed,” he said, and the intelligent animal bowed his head in reply, after which he raised it and sniffed the air with quivering nostril. For a moment Ilya left his side to wrench from moist Mother Earth a ring-barked oak which he bound to the left stirrup of his shaggy bay steed. Then he tore up another tree by the roots, and mounting Cloudfall began to brandish it in his right hand. “Any man can vow a vow,” he said grimly, “even before the high altar, but not every man can keep his vow when he has made it; and my vow was to shed no blood with my keen sword nor yet to use my fiery darts.”

By this time Cloudfall was again passing through the air swifter than a falcon in its flight, though his progress was somewhat stayed when he reached the outer rim of the watching host. Ilya brandished his oak, and bringing it down with one mighty blow after another cleared a path through the host as a hurricane makes a lane through a forest. Through the pathway Cloudfall passed, alighting upon the earth again and again, and leaving wherever he touched the host a heap of prostrate warriors. So did Ilya the Old Cossáck pass through the great host of Tatars, the enemies of Holy Russia.

When the hero came to the gates of Chernigof he found them strongly barred, and a keen watch kept against the armies of the Tatars, who were reported to be advancing upon the city. The wall was lofty and broad, but not too high for Cloudfall, who leapt over it with ease, to the great astonishment of the guards and of the leaders who stood on one of the towers in earnest council. Ilya alighted in the broad courtyard of the church, and entering the holy place found the citizens assembled for prayer, which they hoped might avert the approaching calamity or fortify them for the endurance of a cruel death.

Then Ilya stood forth amongst them and said boldly, “Ye traders of Chernigof, and citizens all, why do you pray when the time is come for action? Why do you meet together to bid farewell to the white world with all its joys?” Then one of the merchants, who was very richly dressed, explained to Ilya, as if he were quite ignorant of outside affairs, how the city was at that moment besieged by the Tatars. Ilya made a slight gesture of impatience and disgust, “Go out,” he said, “upon the broad wall of your famous city, and look towards the open steppe.”

Then some of the men and a few of the bolder maidens went out upon the ramparts, and in the place where the Tatar banners had stood like a forest, the accursed foes lay in great heaps of slain. Upon this the men of the city bowed themselves before Ilya and begged for the honour of his name. They also besought him to stay with them and be their Tsar, and that he would accept at their hands a bowl of pure red gold, another of shining silver, and a third of fine seed pearls. “Nay, I ask no gifts from you,” said Ilya, “though I may possibly have earned them, nor will I stay to be your Tsar. Go on with your lives as of old, my brothers, but grant the favour of showing me the straight way to Kiev town.”

Again they bowed before him, and one of them, speaking for the others, said, “It is twice as far by the circling path as it is by the straight way, but you must take the longer journey, for athwart the straight way lie three barriers; and the road is so lonely that the grey wolf and the black raven avoid it, for it is deserted even by the dead. The first mighty barrier is a range of lofty mountains; the second is a rushing river of enormous breadth, bordered by the Black Morass; and the third is Nightingale the Robber.

“His enormous nest is built upon the tops of seven oaks which saw the dawn of history. When he whistles like a nightingale, roars like a lion, and hisses like a serpent, the trees bow themselves to the earth, the green leaves wither, and both horse and rider fall to the ground as if they were dead.”

This was enough to stir the soul of the heroic Ilya, who forthwith mounted his shaggy bay steed Cloudfall, and rode out upon the straight way. In due time he came to the lofty mountain range; but this barrier was not likely to prove insurmountable to the shaggy bay steed which soared above it like an eagle in its flight. Then they came to the broad rushing river with the Black Morass by its margin, and Ilya, dismounting, wrenched great oak trees from the trembling grasp of moist Mother Earth and flung them before him with one hand while he led Cloudfall over these bridges which he had made with the other. Soon they came to the broad water, and when Ilya had mounted, the shaggy bay steed cleared its rushing current in a single leap.

At last they came to the third barrier, no less than Nightingale the Robber, who was known also as the Magic Bird. As Ilya drew near to his oak trees, Nightingale thrust his head out of the nest and sent forth tongues of flame and showers of sparks from his mouth and nostrils; but this terrible sight had no effect upon the stout heart of the heroic Ilya. Nightingale the Robber therefore began to sing like a bird, varying this entertainment with the roar of a lion and the spiteful hiss of a dragon; and at last the combination of sounds was too much even for Cloudfall. The shaggy bay steed began to tremble with great violence, and then fell upon his knees, whereupon Ilya proceeded to beat him without mercy.

“You grass-bag,” he cried in his anger, “you wolf-carrion, have you never passed through a gloomy forest and heard the song of a bird, the roar of a wild beast, and the hiss of a serpent? See how easily I shall overcome the Magic Bird!”

Then Ilya went up to a willow tree that overhung a brook, broke off a twig, and fitted it to his bow, in order that he might keep his vow to abstain from using his fiery darts. And as he drew his bow-string he cried, “Fly, dart, fly! Pierce the left eye of Nightingale the Robber, and come out at his right ear.”

Swish! went the magic dart. Cloudfall rose to his feet, and Nightingale the Robber fell from his nest in the old oaks and dumped down upon the lap of moist Mother Earth like an enormous sack of wheat. Then Ilya the Old Cossáck lifted the pestilent thief from the ground by his yellow curling hair, bound him securely to his stirrup, and went on his way once more.

By and by they came to the palace of the Magic Bird, where he used to retire with his spoils which he had won in the forest. It was built on seven pillars, and had a courtyard surrounded by an iron paling on each spike of which was the head of a luckless hero, for many brave men had tried to do the deed which Ilya was now performing. Round about the house were the greenest of gardens with loveliest flowers of every hue, and in the midst of these gardens was an orchard with heavily laden fruit trees. From the latticed casements of the palace looked forth the children of the Magic Bird, and when they saw Ilya approaching on his shaggy bay steed they cried out together, “See, Mother, here comes our Father leading a man at his stirrup. Shall we have the captive for dinner?”

‘Nightingale the Robber fell from his nest in the old oaks’

But Elena, one of the children of the Magic Bird, had only one eye and therefore was a witch; and when she looked out from her own particular latticed casement she saw what had really happened and spoke the truth. “Nay, children,” she cried, “it is Ilya the Old Cossáck on his shaggy bay steed Cloudfall, and he rides towards us, bringing our Father as a prisoner.”

“Crick! Crock! Crack!” cried the children in a croaking chorus; “we will at once change ourselves into ravens and rend that peasant hero in pieces with our beaks of iron. Then shall the fragments of his white body be scattered on the bosom of moist Mother Earth.” But Nightingale the Robber, who was not yet dead, shouted out a command that no harm was to be done to Ilya the Old Cossáck. This order, however, had no effect upon the one-eyed daughter, who ran quickly into the courtyard, tore up a heavy steel beam from the threshold, and raising it aloft, hurled it at Ilya with all her strength.

So fierce was the attack of the one-eyed witch-daughter of Nightingale the Robber, that even Ilya, whose saddle-seat was so secure, wavered for a moment, and it was only with great difficulty and much skill that he was able to avoid the full force of the angry blow. Then he leapt lightly from his shaggy bay steed and, remembering his vow, raised his right foot and caught the witch with the full force of his outstretched toe. Up she went into the air, higher than the height of a great cathedral, higher than the cross upon its topmost dome, and then she fell down with a bony rattle against the rear wall of the courtyard, and her skin burst with a sharp crack.

“Fools all!” shouted Nightingale the Robber. “Fools now and always! Fetch from the cellar a heaped-up waggon-load of red gold, another of white silver, and a third of fine seed pearls. Give all these treasures to Ilya the Old Cossáck, and to Cloudfall, his shaggy bay steed, and see if these fine gifts will not induce him to set me free in a trice. Ha, ha!”

But Nightingale the Robber chuckled too soon, for Ilya said in a voice that showed no doubtfulness, “If I should plant my lofty spear in the bosom of moist Mother Earth, and if you were to heap up about it red gold, white silver, and fine seed pearls until not even the sharp tip of it could be seen, yet would I not set you free, Nightingale the Robber, you pestilent thief and father of stealing. You shall come with me forthwith to the glorious town of Kiev, and there you shall receive such forgiveness as you deserve.”

Then Ilya mounted Cloudfall once more, and the shaggy bay steed began to prance while Nightingale the Robber began to dance; and thus prancing and dancing they came to Kiev, the city of Prince Vladimir.

When they arrived the Prince was in the cathedral, and hearing this, Ilya went at once to the sacred courtyard, where he fastened Cloudfall to a golden ring in a tall carven pillar, and said to him, “Keep watch and ward upon Nightingale the Robber, Cloudfall, my faithful shaggy bay steed, and see that he escapes not from my stirrup of damascened steel.” Then to the Magic Bird he spoke, “Presume not, Nightingale the Robber, to depart from the side of my good charger, for there is no place in all the white world where you will be hidden from my searching.”

Then in fulfilment of his first vow Ilya went to the church for the Easter mass; and when he saw Prince Vladimir among the worshippers, he made obeisance to him, but not before he had devoutly crossed himself and done reverence to North, South, East, and West. When the mass had been celebrated, Prince Vladimir sent to summon the stranger hero to his Easter feast; and obedient to the invitation which was really a command, Ilya went to the royal palace, where the Prince asked him to which horde and country he belonged, and who were his parents.

“Sire,” said Ilya, “I am the honourable son of honourable parents who reap their own meadow to feed their own beasts in their own farm, surrounded by the pine forest of Murom. Now as I greeted my Risen Lord at matins this morning, I vowed to come hither by the straight way, and I came.”

The speaker ceased, and the group of heroes, warriors, notabilities, and fair ladies who stood near the Prince stared at him in unbelieving astonishment.

“Good youth,” said Prince Vladimir, “you are fair to look upon, but none the less you must be a son of the Father of Lies. Why, the straight way has been lost for thirty years, and all men know of it is that athwart it lie great barriers. There are in the plains great hordes of accursed Tatars, the enemies of Holy Russia; then there is a broad rushing river bordered by the Black Morass; and, last of all, among the shining birches, on the top of seven great oaks which saw the dawn of history, is raised the nest of Nightingale the Robber. Moreover, that Magic Bird hath nine strong sons and eight ugly daughters, of whom one has only a single eye, and is therefore a witch. Now Nightingale the Robber hath permitted neither horse nor man to pass by him for thirty years.”

“Nay, sire,” said Ilya with perfect calm, “I did indeed come by the straight way, and Nightingale the Robber now sitteth as a prisoner securely bound within the sacred court of the holy temple, where all who thieve must be bound hand and foot.”

Now the astonishment and curiosity which fell upon the company at this announcement was so great that it overcame the hunger of the lords and ladies, who forgot also their courtly dignity as they scrambled out from the palace to see the wonder, or at least to test the truth of Ilya’s words. But Prince Vladimir and Princess Apraxia went out slowly upon the railed balcony.

And there they saw the wonder for themselves—Nightingale the Robber sitting securely bound to the steel stirrup of Cloudfall, the shaggy bay steed, with one eye fixed on Kiev city and the other on far-distant Chernigof, according to the habit he had acquired when awaiting the sallies of champions from those two cities within the security of his lofty nest.

Then said Prince Vladimir, full of wonder mixed with curiosity, “Whistle, Nightingale the Robber, roar like a lion, and hiss like a serpent.” But the Magic Bird replied with a strange smile which had a long way to travel across his face from eye to eye. “I am not your prisoner, Prince Vladimir, and do not eat from your bountiful hand. However, bring me a bowl of wine, for I am plaguily thirsty, and then we shall see what will happen.”

“Give him a bowl of green wine,” said Ilya to the waiting attendants, “a large bowl, capable of accommodating a bucket and a half. And bring a large cake of fine wheat flour, for the mouth of the Magic Bird is parched, and his whistle, roar, and hiss will not be worth hearing if he is not refreshed.”

Then Vladimir himself came forward bringing three large bowls, one of green wine, the drink of princes, a second of vodka, the drink of peasants, and a third of sweet mead, the drink of fair ladies; and Nightingale the Robber drained each of the bowls at a draught. Thereupon Ilya commanded the Magic Bird to whistle, roar and hiss, but to do so under his breath lest harm should come to the royal party, of whom the ladies were now preparing to hide behind the gentlemen, while the gentlemen were trying to persuade the ladies that it was very uncourtly to stand before such peerless beauties.

Then that wicked pestilent thief began to smile from one eye to the other, and it seemed as if a stormy gleam of light passed across the open steppe from Chernigof to Kiev; and out of malice of which his black heart was full, he gave his entertainment at full strength.

At the sounds which he made all the ancient palaces in the royal city cracked, tottered, and tumbled to the ground; the new palaces rocked, and only kept their upright position with a great effort. The roofs of all the poorer houses moved from their places and fell into the streets, while the walls remained, for they were of a tumble-down character in their ordinary state, and not knowing which way to fall decided to remain as they were. Moist Mother Earth quivered like a man with the ague, the horses of the heroes stampeded from the palace stables, the beautiful young ladies hid themselves in corners, and the gay youths were so terrified that they ran into other corners far away, where, of course, they could not comfort them. Ilya leaned over the balcony and caught up Prince Vladimir under one arm and the Princess Apraxia under the other in order to protect them; yet the Prince fell into a swoon from which he did not emerge for three hours.

Then said Ilya, son of strength, in the mightiness of his wrath, “For this base deed of thine, Nightingale the Robber, thou shalt die!”

“Spare a few of his family,” pleaded Prince Vladimir, who had now recovered, and who had never been of a vindictive disposition. “Spare me myself,” begged the Magic Bird, “and you shall have all my money to build a monastery.”

“Nay,” said Ilya, “I will sweep away his pestilent brood and scatter his bones to the winds. As for his ill-gotten gold, no monastery would stand or receive a blessing which was built with it.”

Thereupon he took Nightingale the Robber in his strong white hands and led him far out upon the open plain. There he fitted a burning arrow to his stout bow, for his vow no longer held him, seeing that he had come to Kiev by the straight way, and shot the fiery dart into the black breast of the Magic Bird. After that he struck off his pestilent head and scattered his bones to the winds. Then he sought out his family and scattered their bones to the winds also, and mounting Cloudfall, his shaggy bay steed, he went once more to Prince Vladimir.

By this time the royal company had somewhat recovered their composure, and in order to hide their confusion were busily conversing about the day before yesterday. When Ilya arrived they were seated at the white tables eating savoury viands from the board and drinking green wine and sweet mead; and they complimented Ilya very prettily, as soon as he had washed himself. When the feast was over, the Prince gave the hero the supreme honour of ever henceforth styling himself Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck, for it was reckoned the highest honour that a hero should take his title from the land on which he was born, especially if it was owned by his father; and Ilya, being a true gentleman, valued this distinction infinitely higher than a heaped-up waggon-load of red gold, another of white silver, and a third of fine seed pearls.

As for those bones of the Magic Bird which were scattered to the winds, as they fell to earth they became seeds of the blood-red poppy, from the flowers of which came the first sweet whistling nightingales who know nothing of the roar of the lion or the hiss of the serpent.

ILYA AND FALCON THE HUNTER

One day Ilya rode his shaggy bay steed Cloudfall across the open steppe; and as he went slowly onward he was thinking deeply, for he had performed many deeds of the greatest valour, and was now wondering greatly what he should do next.

“I have visited many lands,” he said in a brooding voice, “and have seen many strange people, but for a long time I have not visited Kiev, where I took Nightingale the Robber as a prisoner firmly bound to my stirrup of bright steel. I will go now to Kiev once more, so that I may see what is happening in the household of Prince Vladimir.”

Raising his head and smiling quietly like a man filled with a secret purpose, he gave Cloudfall the rein, and before he could say “Svyatogor” he was in the city of Kiev, where it was told him by a cook whom he met hurrying across the street that Prince Vladimir was holding a merry feast.

Ilya at once tethered Cloudfall to the carven pillar in the cathedral court and took his way on foot to the banquet-hall of Prince Vladimir, which he entered without invitation, knowing that all wayfarers were welcome to the board of the hospitable Prince.

As soon as he had passed the threshold, Ilya bowed to North, South, East, and West, and then to Prince Vladimir and Princess Apraxia in particular, thinking that the royal couple would surely have a clear remembrance of all the wonderful things that had taken place on his last visit to their town. But neither the Prince nor the Princess knew him again, and it was as a perfect stranger that Vladimir addressed him.

“What is your name and to which horde do you belong?” he asked; “and have you any title of degree?”

“Fair Sun Vladimir,” said Ilya, who was secretly taken aback at his reception, but determined not to show it, “I am called Nikita from beyond the Forest.”

“Welcome, my brave and merry little fellow,” said the Prince with great heartiness; “sit down at our board and eat and drink freely. You will find a little room at the lower end of yonder table. I am sorry there is not more room, but your sharp eyes will see at once that I feast to-day a noble company of princes, statesmen, wealthy merchants, and bold warrior-maids as well as sixty great Russian heroes whose adventures have been many.”

Now Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck did not relish the tone of the Prince’s speech, and felt it a deep humiliation that the conqueror of Nightingale the Robber should break the royal bread at the lower end of the table. His anger rose, and raising his head he cried:

“Fair Sun Vladimir, do you think to place me among the crows while you feast with the eagles? Nay! I will not eat bread with those beneath my degree.”

Such a speech from a man who had made no claim to higher rank than that of Nikita from beyond the Forest, who was clearly a nobody, roused in turn the anger of the Prince. He sprang nimbly to his feet, his face as black as a thunder-cloud, and roared like a crowded den of wild beasts:

“Ho, there, ye mighty heroes of Holy Russia! Will you hear yourselves classed with carrion crows? Seize the stranger, but take care that three of you hold each arm, hale him to the courtyard and strike off his head.” Then there was a great commotion, and the cooks began to wring their hands, for they knew that if they did not keep the food hot while the quarrel was proceeding, the Prince would need new cooks on the following day.

Three heroes grasped the right arm of Ilya and three heroes grasped his left arm. He waved his right hand and three heroes fell breathless to the floor of red brick; then he waved his left hand and three heroes fell on top of them. Thereupon Vladimir roared out a command that twelve fresh heroes should seize him, but these champions fared like their fellows. Then twelve more rose before him and six more behind; and these met the same fate as the rest.

Meanwhile the cooks had been able to snatch away the dishes from beneath the nose of the angry Prince and were now hurrying away to place them in the ovens. Then they heaved in unison such a sigh of relief that the fire burned as brightly as it burns upon a frosty night.

Ilya strode forth from the banquet-hall and the anger burned fiercely within his breast. When he reached the courtyard he turned about and fitted an arrow to his bow. As he drew the cord he whispered to the shaft, “Fly, my dart, about the princely towers and strike off the spires and crosses of gold from the royal palace.” Off went the arrow, but it did not travel by a straight road. It made a circuitous tour of the pinnacles and domes of the stately building, and as it went on its way spire after spire and cross after cross tumbled down upon the pavement. Ilya gathered up these golden trophies, went to the tavern in the market-place and ordered the landlord to bring out his best green wine, for which he would pay with the royal spires and crosses. Then he stood in the doorway and invited all the loafers of the market-place to come and drink the health of Prince Vladimir, who had been good enough, as he grimly remarked, to provide the means of drinking it.

For once the loafers hesitated to lift the green wine to their lips. “What will the Prince do to us in the morning,” they asked, “when he finds that we have drunk up all his golden spires and crosses?”

“Drink, my men,” said Ilya. “To-morrow I myself will reign as Prince in Kiev town, and ye shall be my chiefs.” Then they drank and drank again; but Ilya of Murom did not put the bowl to his lips in such company, for he merely meant to use these men in his determination to win respect and ample apology from the Prince.

In the meantime Prince Vladimir sat at the board with the hungry revellers about him; but he was so deeply wrapped in thought that he did not even notice that the cooks had taken away the dishes. “Who is this who has come to town?” he asked moodily. Then a young nobleman, whose name was Nikitich, sprang to his nimble feet and said, “I have met all the mighty heroes of Holy Russia save one, and that one is Ilya of Murom, who, I have heard, will not die in battle. This wonderful visitor is no Nikita from beyond the Forest. It must be none other than Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck. I fear, my Prince, with all respect to your Highness, that you did not know how to pay worthy honour to your guest either at his coming or his going.”

The Prince’s face lighted up, for the young nobleman who had spoken was the only man in the whole of the company who could read and write, and on that account was privileged to speak his mind when his fellows feared for their heads. “Whom shall we send,” asked Prince Vladimir, “to invite the hero to our banquet?” (At these words some of the cooks hurried off to prepare fresh food.) “My royal chamberlain will not know how to address him, and my chief page is like a peacock—only fit to strut about in the sun among the women. Go you, Nikitich, for you can read and write and therefore have supernatural wisdom. Bow down before him, with your forehead upon moist Mother Earth, and invite him by his name and title thrice repeated to honour us with his presence at a worshipful feast.

“Say that I did not, to my lasting sorrow, recognise him when I placed him at the lower end of the board, but that now I entreat him to honour us with his truly remarkable presence. Tell him that I bear no ill-will for what has passed, and that instead of sitting at the lower end of the board—though there is now more room in that quarter—he shall sit in the great corner near to the Princess Apraxia herself.”

Now Nikitich, having learnt to read and write, did not act upon rash impulse, but stood for a few moments looking supernaturally wise and weighed the matter with the utmost circumspection. “Shall I go?” he asked himself. “It may mean sudden death for me at the hands of Ilya. On the other hand, it will certainly mean slow death at the hands of Prince Vladimir if I do not obey. Perhaps I had better go.” Then with a low bow to the Prince and another to the Princess, he left the banquet-hall with the step of resolution.

In a few moments he came to the tavern where he saw Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck sitting grimly watching the loafers while they drank the health of Prince Vladimir. “It will be better,” said Nikitich to himself, “if I come upon him from behind, for then I shall be able to deliver my message without being put in deadly fear by his eyes of terror.” So he approached Ilya from behind as he sat there and, placing his hands upon the hero’s mighty shoulders, told him all that Prince Vladimir had said; but being able to read and write, and therefore full of supernatural wisdom, he missed out the sentence about the Prince bearing no ill-will for what had passed.

Had he been able to watch the face of Ilya as he spoke the Prince’s message, Nikitich would have seen a bright gleam of laughter steal into the terrible eyes of the Old Cossáck. But when the speech was over, Ilya did not turn his head. “It is well for you, young Nikitich,” he said grimly, “that you come upon me from behind. If you had approached me from before, your body would have been dust and ashes before now. Go at once and deliver to Prince Vladimir the following message in answer to his own:

“Let strict orders be issued to all the inn-keepers of Kiev and Chernigof that they invite all who care to come to quaff green wine at the expense of Prince Vladimir; and for those who care not for green wine let vodka, the drink of the peasants, be provided; while those who love neither shall drink sweet mead beloved of fair ladies and their squires. By this all men shall know that Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck who led captive Nightingale the Robber is now come to town. Let the Prince also prepare an honourable banquet and reserve the great corner near the high table for me.

“Otherwise,” continued Ilya, at last turning his head and fixing his heroic eyes on the young man of supernatural wisdom who could both read and write, “otherwise——” But the ambassador of Prince Vladimir did not stay to enquire what would happen. The sight of Ilya’s countenance was enough for him, and only the drunken loafers heard the completion of the hero’s threat “—the Prince shall reign in Kiev no longer than to-morrow’s morn.”

Then quickly, quickly, very very quickly, and with lightning speed, ran the wise young man to Prince Vladimir, and quickly, quickly, very very quickly, and with lightning speed, were the “requests” of Ilya complied with. Great crowds drew to the tavern, though they came not to drink but to see the Old Cossáck. They were however disappointed, for Ilya had gone, post-haste upon the heels of the envoy, to take his place at the banquet, taking his invitation for granted. But being a true gentleman, he bowed on entering the hall to the North, South, East, and West, and then in particular to Prince Vladimir and Princess Apraxia.

Vladimir rose quickly to his feet and cried with hands extended, “Ho, there, Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck. Here is a place for you beside me, in the great corner near the stove. Or if it please you to sit elsewhere it shall be as you will.” So Ilya sat in the great corner, and before long the cooks and the serving men were passing to and fro like a whirlwind.

Now, as they sat at meat and as the wine pails freely passed, there happened a very great wonder; for Prince Vladimir turned to pledge Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck, and behold! he no longer sat in the great corner. The Prince rubbed his eyes in astonishment, but the Princess, with a somewhat scornful smile, told him to look for Ilya under the banquet table. Then they looked, but Ilya was not there. So the Prince sent out messengers upon the broad road which ran for forty furlongs to the city of Galich; but Ilya was not upon the broad road, and the only man they met was an old pilgrim who was making his way slowly and painfully to Kiev town. His smock was tattered with use, and a ragged girdle was bound about his waist. His cap was heavy with moisture, his feet were covered with rotten straw, and he leaned so heavily upon a crooked staff that the moist earth squirted out beneath his step.

The ancient pilgrim entered the town and went to the chief inn, where he asked courteously enough for a pail and a half of green wine. “You old grey dog,” said the inn-keeper, “we do not trust such as you, nor can we give you green wine without your money.” Then the old man took from his neck a cross of gold, wonderfully chased, of great weight, and clearly of as great antiquity. “Take this cross in payment,” he said, but not one of the men dared to handle it. Then seeing that the old man was faint for want, the peasants about the place gave each a kopeck that he might have his wine; and when it was brought to him he drank it in a draught and a half and at a breath and a half. Having done this, he climbed upon the stove, lay down as if he were in his mother’s cottage, and fell fast asleep.

Very early in the morning, as the warm red sun arose, the old pilgrim descended from the stove, went down to the cellars, burst open the door with his foot, took a cask of wine under each arm and rolled a third before him with his right great toe. So he came out to the green meadow and then into the market-place, where he shouted out, in a voice wonderfully strong for so aged a pilgrim, “Ho, ye peasants of the village, come to the old man’s feast.” By this time, however, the men from the tavern were upon him; but though there were many of them they could not take the wine from the old man, so they went to make their complaint to Prince Vladimir.

“Bring him before me,” said the royal judge, and they did so. Then the ancient pilgrim raised his eyes, and by means of the smile in the depths of them Vladimir knew him for Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck.

“Plague upon my love of fun,” said Ilya, “but these thick-headed varlets are easily imposed upon. Let me pay them for my fun and, Prince, give me work worthy of a hero.”

“The time demands a hero’s help,” said Prince Vladimir, “for my royal city goes in fear by day and passes sleepless nights in terror for Falcon the Hunter, who rides the heavens and can pass over the loftiest barriers to hurl his fiery darts upon every golden pinnacle which rears upward to the sky. Make a barrier, Ilya, upon the road by which he comes, and check him, if you can, with fiery shafts from your magic bow.”

Then Ilya’s eyes gleamed with pleasure, and he called for six of the mightiest heroes to help him to form a barrier in the path of Falcon the Hunter; and among the six was Nikitich, the young man of supernatural wisdom who could both read and write, as well as Vaska Longskirt, who was very brave but hampered in his fighting by his voluminous coat in which he defied the white world. The seven made a strong barrier on the road by which Falcon the Hunter took his flight, so strong that no horseman ever so swift could gallop by, nor wayfarer circumvent it; no wild beast could break it, and if a ravening eagle or carrion crow soared above it the fiery darts of Ilya brought it down in a shower of feathers and a rain of blood. “Surely,” said Princess Apraxia, whose bright eyes always closed involuntarily as Falcon the Hunter was seen riding upon the clouds, “we shall be safe from the horror that stalks in the darkness by reason of the barrier of Ilya of Murom.”

But late that night young Falcon the Hunter passed by, leaping from one low black cloud to another, and with a dazzling smile scorning the barrier of the seven heroes. In the early dawn Ilya went forth and traced the footsteps of his black horse—a blasted pine tree with its heart scorched to charcoal, a tall tower, and several golden pinnacles of the royal pavilion lying upon the bosom of moist Mother Earth. He went back to his brother heroes. “While we slept until the white dawn,” he cried in a loud voice, “Falcon the Hunter swept by in his malignity. What a barrier is this of ours! What a fortress! Let us arm ourselves, my friends, and go out upon the steppe to seek this rash intruder whose malignant glance causes the Princess Apraxia to close her eyes in fear.” Then they sat down in a circle to hold a wise council, having no immediate fear of Falcon the Hunter, who never came to the city of many golden pinnacles while the sun shone broadly upon it.

“Whom shall we send against Falcon the Hunter?” asked Ilya, who did not intend to go himself until the others had failed. “It is of little use sending Vaska Longskirt, for he will get entangled in the tails of his coat. Nikitich must go, and if he finds that Falcon the Hunter is a Russian he shall swear eternal brotherhood with him on behalf of all of us. But if he finds he is an infidel he shall challenge him to mortal combat.”

Then Nikitich sprang to his nimble feet, saddled and mounted his good steed, and rode forth to the place where a great river met the dark-grey sea. As he looked along the straight road he saw a rider before him who sat upon his horse with the assurance of youth and victory. His black steed was full of mettle and fresh from the untamed steppe. At each leap he covered a furlong, and the marks which the hoofs of his horse made upon the bosom of moist Mother Earth were as large as a ram or a full-grown sheep. Flames flashed from the mouth of the steed, lighting up the heavy clouds which hung over the dark-grey sea, sparks of blue fire showered from his nostrils, and from his erected ears smoke curled in tiny wreaths which quivered and then vanished in mid-air. The helmet on the head of the hero glowed like fire, and blue rays of light darted from ornaments on his doublet, from his pointed spurs and his stirrups of bright steel. At his left stirrup ran a swift grey-hound, and a fire-eating dragon was chained to the right which sang and whistled with a strange music as the horse and its rider passed on towards the dark-grey sea. From shoulder to shoulder hopped the clear-eyed bird from which Falcon the Hunter took his name, and as it passed it plucked at the long yellow locks of the rider, which streamed upon his shoulders like tongues of living flame.

The knight sat easily upon the back of his strange steed, and as he rode he amused himself by hurling his bright steel mace towards the lowering clouds which hung threatening over the dark-grey sea. It flashed across the cloudy barrier, making a bright reflection in the heaving water, and then returned obedient to the hand of Falcon the Hunter without touching either sea or land in its flight. As he played, Falcon the Hunter spoke to his wonderful mace: “Lightly as I now whirl this mace aloft, even so lightly will I twirl Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck.”

Then Nikitich called out, “Ho, there, Falcon the Hunter! Have you no fear of our barrier?”

Falcon replied over his shoulder, “’Tis not for youths even of supernatural wisdom to pursue me in the open plain. It is high time that you were hiding from me in the deep depths of a feather-bed.”

When Falcon the Hunter spoke, the waters of the sea were troubled, flecks of foam appeared upon the deep, and the shallows were choked with sand. The charger of Nikitich trembled sorely and fell down upon its knees, while its rider sank upon the bosom of moist Mother Earth, where he lay as if in a trance for the space of three full hours. When he awoke, the sun was shining brightly, the waves upon the ocean danced in glee, and the tumbled rack of grey clouds on the horizon was all dispersed and scattered. But Falcon the Hunter was no longer to be seen, for with all his terrors he was afraid of the jolly sun with his broad and welcoming smile.

Nikitich now mounted his charger and rode off at once to report to Ilya the Old Cossáck. The old man listened quietly and then said with a sigh, “I grow old, and yet there is none coming after me to take my place.” Then he saddled his good charger Cloudfall and sprang upon his back without making any use of the stirrups. On the saddle-strap hung his war club, mighty in weight; on his left hip rested his sharp sword and in his hand he held his silken whip; but for this encounter he placed most reliance upon the fiery darts in the quiver upon his broad back and in the strength of his mighty bow. Thus armed he rode forth into the darkness of the mountains, where he found Falcon the Hunter leaping from summit to summit and rousing the cavernous echoes with his fear-compelling voice. But neither the flashing flames nor the rolling angry accents struck terror to the heart of Ilya, for with a quick movement he shifted his quiver, which was open at both ends, so that the points of the darts pointed heavenwards, and from these points streamed a blue radiance which enveloped the form of the hero like a protecting halo.

Above the noise of the voice of Falcon the Hunter was heard the voice of the heroic Ilya. “Ho there!” he cried, “Thief, dog, braggart! Why have you passed our barrier without doing reverence to me or asking my leave?” When the Hunter heard this challenge he turned and rode at Ilya, and for a moment, though only for a moment, the heart of the hero died within him. But with a tightening of the strap of that wonderful quiver, so that even in the fight his fiery darts should point heavenwards, he rushed into the fray. First they fought with their maces until these snapped short at the hilt, but neither fighter was wounded in the least. Then their swords flashed fire until both were splintered, but still neither fighter was wounded in the least. Next they fought with their spears until both were shattered, and even yet neither fighter was wounded in the least. Last of all they lighted down upon the ground and fought hand to hand.

All day they fought, till stormy even, till black midnight, till the grey dawn, and so they did the second day, and likewise the third. Then Ilya waved his right hand, and his left foot slipped from under him. Down he fell like a stack of hay, but as he fell he was able to move his quiver so that the fiery darts with their streaming blue fire pointed directly heavenwards. As he lay there Falcon the Hunter planted himself upon his breast and struck at him with a flashing dagger of steel. But the blow fell upon the upturned points of those wonderful darts and spent itself on the broad bosom of moist Mother Earth.

“See!” cried Ilya with a grim laugh. “It was foretold of me that I should not die in battle. Oh, brave good youth, tell me from what horde you come and who were your parents.”

“It is time,” growled Falcon the Hunter, “that you should shave your head and go to a monastery.” At this taunt the heart of Ilya grew hot and his blood, still youthful, boiled within him. With a mighty blow of his fist he struck Falcon on his black breast, hurling him skywards, though not so high as the heavy clouds which lowered above the heroic fight. When the Hunter fell once more, Ilya sprang to his nimble feet and sat in his turn upon the breast of his enemy.

“Tell me now, good youth,” he said, “the name of thy land, thy horde, and thy father.”

“When I sat upon thy breast,” growled Falcon the Hunter, “I did not enquire of thee thy land, thy horde, and thy parentage, for these things concern not me, the enemy of all mankind. And if I sat upon it again I would pierce your bosom, pluck out your heart and examine it in mere curiosity, and then scatter the fragments of your white body over the plain, to be torn by the grey wolf and picked by the black crows.”

Then Ilya asked his enemy no more questions but drew forth his shining dagger of steel; and at the sight of this gleaming weapon the heart of Falcon the Hunter sank within his breast and he gave the answer required of him:

“I come from far across the sea, from the palace of grey stone where the sun has no power to enter, and my mother was the warrior-queen Zlatigorka. The name of my father I do not know. When I left the palace of grey stone my mother, who now is gentle, told me to meet Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck if I could, and having met him to dismount from my horse and do reverence to him, touching my forehead upon the bosom of moist Mother Earth.”

Then the fierce eyes of Ilya grew soft with compassion, and his mind went back to the far-off day when he crossed the deep-blue sea in the strength of his manhood to see the palace of grey stone and to talk with the warrior-queen who ruled there; for he had vowed that he would win the love of that brave Princess and take her as his bride. Now, being a hero, and the maiden a right worthy mate for him, he could not hope, nor would he care, to win the Princess except he had first proved that he was stronger than she; and for a long time the two had striven day after day until at times their hearts were sick of the eternal conflict, yet neither could bring it to an end. Then at last the warrior-queen had weakened and had yielded, and had found more joy in yielding than in conquest; and Ilya had given her his golden ring set with a ruby red as a flaming heart, while she had given him a wondrous cross of gold to wear upon his heroic breast; and the two had lived in the palace of grey stone until a son was born to them and the fighting queen had forgotten her weapons and her warrior strength in her motherhood. Then Ilya had been called away on one of his many quests, and the boy had grown up without his heroic guidance—to become a scourge to his gentle mother and to all mankind. And as he thought on these matters, the heart of Ilya was saddened beyond measure, and stooping over Falcon the Hunter he took him by his white hands, kissed his lips and called him his son, weeping greatly as he looked upon him. Then raising his hands he blessed him and said:

“Ride, my son, to the margin of the waters, and then cross the grey sea until you come to the palace of grey stone and to your lady mother who lives only in her memories. Greet her lovingly from me, and say that Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck keeps her ever in his golden heart.”

Then Falcon the Hunter rose to his feet and prepared to do his father’s bidding. But when he came to the porch of the palace of grey stone these were the words he uttered:

“Ho, there, bold and evil woman! Come forth! Was it indeed the son of a peasant whom you gave me for a father?”

Then his mother came out upon the porch, and though her face was grey with double grief and she stooped as if she needed the strong arm of a brave man about her shoulders, the undutiful son struck at her with his flashing sword and she fell dead upon the pavement.

Even this piteous sight did not touch the cold and fiery heart of Falcon the Hunter, who shouted out so that the walls of the palace of grey stone rang again, “I go now to give the old peasant, Ilya of Murom, to speedy death.” Thereupon he crossed the grey sea over which the angry clouds were lowering, mounted his charger, and rode quickly towards the fair white linen pavilion of Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck.

Lifting the curtain of the tent, he found his father sleeping and hurled a burning shaft at him; but it struck the wondrous cross of gleaming gold which Ilya wore upon his heroic breast and glanced harmlessly aside, though the mighty blow roused the hero from his slumber. He leapt from his couch, seized his undutiful son by his yellow curls, and laid him lifeless upon the plain. So Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck freed the people of Holy Russia from their fear of Falcon the Hunter, the enemy of all mankind.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE BURNING WHITE STONE

Ilya of Murom rode Cloudfall across the open steppe. For nigh three hundred years he had ridden, and he wondered at the youthfulness of his heart which constant danger had kept fresh and young. “Ah, old age, old age! Thou hast chased and overtaken even Cloudfall in the open steppe, and like a bleached raven hast alighted on my head—but not on my arm.” Then with a youthful gesture he flung out his sword arm, tightened the girth of Cloudfall and gave the rein to the shaggy bay steed.

Away went Cloudfall like the wind, and Ilya as he sat upon him was like the falcon clear. There was no need of bridge or ferryman for this heroic traveller, for good Cloudfall leapt over shining lake and rushing river, quivering bog and reedy swamp. And as they rode they came to a place where three roads met, and there stood a burning white stone on which was inscribed: “He who rides to the right shall gain great wealth; he who rides to the left shall gain a wife; he who rides straight forward shall gain his death.” Then Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck halted and stood still with his head bowed in an attitude of the deepest thought.

“I am an old man,” he said to himself, “and have all the wealth I need, for it wearies me to count it. Why should an old man wish for a wife? I will take the straight road though Death should sit athwart it.” Then he added, lifting his head with the light of unquenched youth still in his eyes, “It may be that Death and I shall come to grips in one more great adventure.”

Then the youthful Old Cossáck rode onward for leagues and leagues until at last he entered a gloomy forest into which he advanced for some distance, and then met a band of forty thousand robbers who cast eighty thousand envious eyes (save one, for the chief had lost an eye in a battle) upon the goodly proportions and intelligent appearance of Cloudfall the shaggy bay steed. “In all our lives,” they said one to another, “we have never seen such a horse. Halt then, good youth, halt, thou hero of Holy Russia!” And they would have forced him to halt but Ilya said:

“Ho, ye robber horde! Why kill an old man and rob him? I have no money in my wallet save five hundred roubles. The cross of gold upon my breast is worth only five hundred—to any one of your company—my cloak of sables about three thousand, my cap and my sandals about five hundred each, my bridle, set with precious stones, about a thousand. My saddle, bordered with eagle feathers,—I hunted that eagle over the blue sea on the way to the palace of grey stone—is priceless and therefore of no value to any of your company. Between the ears of Cloudfall and under his eyes are clear stones of purest jacinth, but he wears these, not for youthful vanity, but because they help him to see for thirty miles on all sides as he bounds across the open steppe. As for my faithful shaggy bay steed Cloudfall, he is worth nothing at all, except to me. Here then is my inventory. Value me I pray you for yourselves.”

The robber leaders jeered as they replied, “Thou art old and talkative, Cossáck. Since we took to roaming across the white world, we have never met with such a fool. Why, thou art so foolish that thou hast told us all the clear truth. Seize the old man, my brothers.”

But as the robbers advanced upon him, Ilya of Murom drew a fiery dart from his quiver, and fixing it to his terrible bow shot at a tree to his right hand which was the grandmother of all the oaks. The mighty trunk was shivered into fragments, and the earth was ploughed up round about by the force of that tremendous blow, at the sound of which all the robbers fell flat upon the earth, where they lay for the space of five hours before they recovered themselves. And when they arose again to an erect posture the leader said:

“Good youth, noble hero of Holy Russia! Enter thou into comradeship with us. Take from our goodly store whatever pleases you of golden treasure, embroidered cloth, horses and cattle.” But Ilya laughed the jolly laugh of the adventurer to whom goods and gear, however rich, are a trouble and a burden. “Ah, brothers, my brave foes,” he said, “I have no wish to be troubled with guarding treasure, feeding horses, and tending cows and sheep. I must ride and ride ever onward across the open steppe and leave the guarding of treasure to shop-keepers and merchants who live in towns behind bolts and bars.”

Then Ilya of Murom turned Cloudfall in his tracks, and came again to the burning white stone, from which he erased the inscription and wrote in its place:

I, Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck, have ridden straight forward and have not gained my death.

Once more the aged hero with the heart of youth rode out into the open steppe, turning this time to the left. He rode onward for three hundred miles and then came to a smooth meadow as green as an emerald stone, and upon this meadow stood a wonder of wonders. It was too small to be called a city and too large to be called a village. It was, in truth, a beautiful palace of white stone with roofs of shining gold and strange three-cornered towers.

Ilya drew rein before the golden gateway, whereupon there came forth upon the green sward forty beautiful maidens, who walked proudly behind Princess Zenira the All Fair. Ilya dismounted and bowed low, whereupon the beautiful Princess took him by his white hands, kissed him on the lips, and invited him to a feast in the banquet-hall of the palace of white stone. “I have travelled far in Holy Russia,” said Ilya of Murom, “but I have never seen such a fair palace or such beautiful ladies.” The maidens bowed their heads, like ears of corn before a gentle breeze, and the Princess led the hero within the palace.

When they came to the banquet-hall, Ilya bowed to North, South, East, and West, and especially to the Princess Zenira, who placed him at the table of fair white oak in the big corner and brought him food of the best with sweet mead to drink. “Do not eat or drink of these things until you are satisfied, good youth,” she said gently, “for there is more to come.” But Ilya looked at her as she spoke, and looked at her again, and for a third time he scanned her face and found it beautiful with the beauty of the newly-fallen snow on the wide steppe when the moon rises; that was the beauty of the Princess Zenira. Then Ilya’s eyes fell once more upon the fair white oak of the table and he said, speaking as one who knows his meaning, “I have ridden for three hundred miles and my hunger and thirst are as heroic as my steed.” So he ate and drank his fill.

Then as his head seemed to droop upon his breast, though in reality he was more wide awake than ever, the Princess Zenira led him to a rich warm chamber at one side of which stood a broad bed of yew wood and ivory with pillows of the softest down.

“Here you will rest as on the lap of your mother,” said the fair Princess, “but I advise you to lie near to the brick wall which is warm from the stove beneath.” “Nay,” said the hero, “I will lie upon the outer edge for I often rise in the night to see for myself that Cloudfall is well stabled.” Then without more ado, he seized the fair Princess Zenira by the middle and flung her upon the bed of yew wood against the wall.

And behold the bed of yew with pillows of softest down was false, for it turned on a pivot when the weight was cast upon the side nearer to the brick wall, and the fair Princess was hurled down into her dungeon, forty fathoms deep. Then Ilya turned and left the chamber, and coming out into the courtyard said in the voice of him who must be obeyed: “Give me the keys of gold which unlock the doors of the dungeon and show me the way to the dark vaults beneath this palace of white stone.” So they pointed out the way, and he found it choked with yellow sand and barred with huge logs of wood.

He had really no need of keys of gold, silver, iron, or steel; for in the strength of his heroic anger he tore the locks asunder with his hands and forced back the doors with his heels until they burst from their frames. Then came forth from the dungeons forty Tsars and Tsareviches, forty kings and princes, with their eldest sons, together with Nikitich the youth of supernatural wisdom, who could both read and write, but whose wonderful learning had not made him proof against the wiles of Princess Zenira although her beauty was only that of the newly-fallen snow upon the steppe illumined by the cold rays of the rising moon.

‘It was clear that her fascination still worked upon the hearts of the prisoners’

There stood this great company, blinking their eyes in the light and looking very foolish, and as they hummed and ha’ed and wondered how to explain themselves, the fair Princess Zenira, as beautiful as ever, came round a corner of the dark passage, and her moonlight beauty lit up the darkness of the dungeon. In spite of all their experiences it was clear that her fascination still worked upon the hearts of the prisoners, and seeing this Ilya cried in a voice which shook the vaults until they re-echoed again and again, “Tsars, to your tsardoms; kings, to your kingdoms; Nikitich, to my side; and, being delivered, say a prayer for Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck.”

In a few moments the whole company with the exception of Nikitich was racing pell-mell across the emerald meadow, and having dismissed the youth of supernatural wisdom, Ilya advanced sternly upon the fair Princess Zenira. He took her by her lily-white hands and bound her to three Cossáck ponies fresh from the farthest steppe. Then he drove them apart and turned his head that he might not see the end of that white witch; and he divided her treasure among the prisoners, sending each man’s share to his kingdom, and gave the fair white palace to the flames.

Once more Ilya returned to the burning white stone, crossed out the old inscription and wrote yet another which ran:

I, Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck, have ridden to the left and have not gained a wife

“I will go now,” said Ilya, “upon the last road, where wealth is to be won.” So he rode again over the open steppe, and came at length to a green meadow where deep pits were dug, and then to a dark and gloomy forest in which there was a mountain cave filled with fair red gold, white silver, and fine seed pearls; and above the entrance to the cave, in the face of the smooth rock, were carved the words,

“This treasure will fall to Ilya of Murom.”

For seven days Ilya sat wondering what he should do to dispose of the treasure. Then he arose and went to the nearest town, where he hired builders and carpenters, architects and workers in metal. These men he set to work to build a fair cathedral on the place where the gloomy forest had stood, and when the glorious building was completed, he instituted church singing and the sound of bells, for in these things his soul delighted. When this work had been finished—and it occupied a fair space of time—Ilya returned to Kiev city, where the courteous Prince Vladimir asked him where he had been.

Sitting down in the great corner near the stove, the old man smiled gently, stretched his feet to the blaze, and told the Prince the Adventure of the Three Roads and of the Burning White Stone. Then he yawned and went to bed in the peace of accomplishment.

HOW QUIET DUNAI HAD BROUGHT THE PRINCESS APRAXIA TO KIEV

The tale of the wedding of Vladimir and the Princess Apraxia was one which was often told after a banquet; and here it is:

Quiet Dunai was a great traveller, and one who loved to move without turbulence, leisurely and at his chosen ease. From land to land he wandered, both seeing and observing, across the green and open steppe in summer, but resting in the winter within whatever palace of fair white stone he could find a seat in the great corner and hearers who would listen quietly to his traveller’s tales.

At last he came to the kingdom of Lithuania, where in the palace of the monarch he served for three years as equerry with the care of the King’s horses and chargers; for three more years he served as Grand Steward with the oversight of the great banquets with which the King honoured his nobles; for three more years he served as Groom of the Chambers, and knew all the King’s mind. And during all these years he loved, at times somewhat turbulently but yet on the whole quietly and devotedly and faithfully and hopefully, the Princess Nastasya, who in her turn favoured him silently and kept him ever in her golden heart.

Now, on a certain day, the King of Lithuania made a great feast and invited all his nobles to share his hospitality. Quiet Dunai was very busy with the preparations for the banquet, and on one of his many visits to the King’s apartments he happened to meet, quite by accident, the Princess Nastasya. She looked at him quietly and said:

“Go not to this banquet, quiet Dunai, for there will be much eating and more drinking, and when the boasting time comes near the end of the feast you will brag of me.”

“I know you will, Dunai,” she added gently, and Dunai looked at her quietly, feeling in his heart that what she said could not be denied. “Then they will set upon you, Dunai, and you will lose your head.” Hereupon the Princess sighed gently and looked down at the point of her golden slipper. But Dunai, quiet as he was, had no mind to avoid the feast, and declared his intention of being present; and the Princess turned and left him humming a light song which seemed to have lost its merriment.

The feast was held, and when the guests had eaten well and drunk better, then came the boasting time, when quiet Dunai took his turn with the rest, telling of his far wanderings, of the King’s favour and rewards, and of how the beautiful young Princess Nastasya kept him ever in her golden heart. Then the King grew very angry and cried out:

‘Then the Princess ran with her feet all bare out into the open corridor’

“Ho, there, ye headsmen, seize quiet Dunai by his white hands, lead him out upon the open steppe and chop off his turbulent head.”

Without delay the pitiless headsmen bore down upon Dunai and seized him by the shoulders. “I go without help from you,” he said quietly as he shook them off; “but as you lead me to the open steppe see that we pass by the window of the Princess Nastasya, who keeps me ever in her golden heart.”

Then there happened a great wonder, and yet it was no wonder at all. Before they had reached the window of the Princess, Dunai said quietly, “Sleepest thou, Nastasya? Wakest thou not? Lo, they are leading Dunai to the open steppe to cut off his loving head.”

Now the Princess lay sleeping when the whisper rustled through her casement and woke her very gently. Without delay she rose from her couch and put on a loose robe of fair white linen. But she had no time to fasten round it a girdle of gold, or to bind up her flowing tresses, before she heard the voice of Dunai once more, this time in tones of thunder, “Sleepest thou, Nastasya? Wakest thou not? Lo, they are leading Dunai to the open steppe to cut off his loving head.”

Then the Princess ran with her feet all bare out into the open corridor, from which she could see the prisoner and his guards, and stretching out her little hands in piteous entreaty she cried:

“Ho, there, ye pitiless headsmen! Take what treasure you desire, but when you come to the open steppe set free quiet Dunai that he may wander once again. And take back to the King the head of some prisoner who has paid for his crimes with his death—some one, any one except quiet Dunai.”

Then the headsmen made signs to the Princess that they would obey her, and the group passed out to the open steppe where quiet Dunai was set free and wandered on as he had done before he became the officer of the King of Lithuania and loved the Princess Nastasya. On he went, quietly watching until he came to Kiev town, where he went to the inn and entered into conversation with men of the place. From these fellows he learnt that Prince Vladimir was holding a great feast, and that his guests were eating the white swan and drinking green wine of priceless value.

As it happened, just at that moment the boasting time had come. One man bragged of his horse, another of his valour, a third of his sharp sword, a fourth of his young wife, and a wise man who had not drunk so well, of the goodness of his father and the tenderness of his mother. In time, Prince Vladimir grew weary of their boasting and stood up among them, whereupon all their voices were hushed.

“Boast not, my brothers,” he said with a show of impatience. “Glory not in your horses, your great deeds, your golden treasures. Have not I red gold, white silver, and fine seed pearls in great abundance? But in one matter most of you outstrip me. For ye have wives loving and beautiful, while I, your Prince, am still unwed. Is there no Princess who is my mate, and who will wed with me? She must be like a goddess in stature and like a goddess in the perfection of her beauty, of delicate grace, and stately of gait like the peacock. There must be a faint flush in her face like unto the white hare, while her eyes must be falcon clear and full of light. Yellow hair must she have, with eyebrows of blackest sable, and her speech must be entrancing. Then, having found her, I shall have one beside me with whom I may think my deepest thoughts and take counsel, and to whom ye mighty princes, heroes, and all Kiev may pay homage as your queen.”

Then all the guests grew silent, and for a long time no man spoke a word; and as often as the eye of Vladimir sought out one man, he took pains to hide himself behind some one bigger. At length there stood up in his place the bold, brave youth Nikitich, who could both read and write, and said:

“My lord and master, Prince Vladimir, have I leave to speak what is in my mind without fear of speedy death or distant exile or heavy chastisement?”

And Vladimir said, “Say on, Nikitich, and God may forgive you if you speak unwisely.”

Then the bold youth said fearlessly:

“I know a fitting mate for you who is all that you have said, a beauty with whom none can compare in all the white world. For myself, I have not seen her, but of her loveliness I have often heard from my comrade, quiet Dunai, who sitteth now in the inn and hath no garments to fit him out for appearance at this honourable feast.”

“Take my golden keys,” said Vladimir, “and open my wardrobes. Choose from thence all that quiet Dunai requires of raiment, and bring him to me.”

Then Nikitich went out and did all that the Prince had ordered; and as he passed through the streets with quiet Dunai by his side, the maidens and the wives, young and old, put forth their heads from the windows, asking each other across the narrow way, “Whence come such goodly youths as these?”

As soon as they had come into the banquet hall, Dunai bowed to North, South, East, and West, and especially to Prince Vladimir, and they gave him a seat in the great corner by the fair white oaken table. Then they set food and wine before him, and when he had refreshed himself, Prince Vladimir poured out green wine into a crystal goblet from the East with a rim of thick gold and brought it to quiet Dunai, who took the cup in one hand and quaffed its contents at a breath. Then he stood up and said steadily:

“I know a bride fit even to mate with you, Prince Vladimir, the Fair Sun of Kiev. The King of Lithuania has two fair daughters. The eldest, the Princess Nastasya, is no mate for you, for she loves best to ride abroad in the open plain seeking adventures, but her sister, the Princess Apraxia, sits at home in a fair chamber of her palace embroidering a kerchief of white linen with threads of ruddy gold. She sits behind thrice nine locks of cunning workmanship and thrice nine guards in a lofty castle, and the ruddy sun may not scorch her nor the fine and frequent rains drop upon her, nor the stormy winds disarrange her braided locks of yellow gold, while no venturesome breeze may mar the delicate flush in her face like unto the white hare. I have not yet seen her, but I know of her peerless beauty and speak of what I know.”

“Hear ye this, my Russian heroes!” cried Prince Vladimir, while his eyes shone brightly and his face was wreathed in smiles. “Whom shall we send as our royal envoy to far-off Lithuania?”

Then one of the heroes spoke out:

“Prince Vladimir,” he said, “we have none of us been in strange lands with strange customs, nor talked in strange speech with strange people. In a matter where more than strength and goodwill is needed, namely, the wooing of a fair Princess, I doubt that none of your heroes would serve you well. Send quiet Dunai. He has been ambassador to royal courts and has received ambassadors also. He can talk in strange speech as well as fight; let him woo the fair Princess Apraxia for you, and when she comes here, as she surely will, we will eat the white swan and drink green wine in her honour, and crack skulls, too, if she needs such heroic help.”

The truth of these words could not be denied, and as the hero who had spoken, suddenly realising that he had made a wise speech, hid in confusion behind his neighbour at the table, Prince Vladimir rose to his feet and said:

“Go in my name, quiet Dunai, to the far-famed Lithuanian kingdom and woo the Princess Apraxia for me with all the skill at your command.”

“I go at your bidding,” said quiet Dunai, with a bow, “but it is not fitting that I should go alone.”