down the hill together. There they lie. The eyes of the woman who stands gazing down upon them—the indifferent eyes—grow larger, grow rounder, with horror. The greyhound stands beside her ready for the plunge, like a trained leopard of the chase, and the stallion has the fire of battle in its blood.
The light of coming day can not penetrate the rocky cavern where they have rolled together, and where the great Pan Strahinja, with a hand of steel, is slowly choking the Turk to death. Ha!—my swine! He killed him with his own hand.
Then he freed himself, drew his golden dagger, and cut off the head and walked quickly, carrying it, to the high land.
He fastens the head to the saddle, lifts the woman up, swings himself to place and rides calmly away toward his tent.
A few months later the Patriarch of Stamboul visited the great Pan Strahinja, when he was setting out on his journey to Rome.
He saw hanging in the corner of his tent a skull.
“Whose is that?”
“A Turk.”
“How does he earn such honor?”
