"When he has drunk well, he will grow weak, and then you must take his sharp sword from his girdle and hew off his head with it. As soon as his head falls to the ground you will hear voices behind you crying, 'Strike again, strike again.' But these will be the voices of tempters, and your answer to them must be, 'A hero's hand strikes once to kill, but never once to maim.'"
Ivan had scarcely disposed himself under the flowing purple robe which swept down upon the green and translucent base of the throne of Golden Tress, when suddenly the room grew dark and everything within it trembled and creaked. Whirlwind flew to his castle, and no one saw his form until he struck the courtyard stones. Then he became a goodly young man with a changeful restless face, and strode quickly into the castle carrying his club with a flourish, until he came before the emerald throne.
"Tfu, Tfu, Tfu," he said, sniffing disgustedly. "There is an odour of Russia here. Have you had visitors?"
"I cannot tell why you should think so," said Golden Tress. Then Whirlwind came forward and held out his arms to embrace the mother of Ivan, but with a quick movement the heroic youth stretched out his hand and seized his club. "I'll eat you," cried Whirlwind in a passion of anger, and Ivan replied, "Well, either you will or you won't."
With a piercing shriek Whirlwind turned and mounted quickly upward. He passed with a howl
