fused 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
