chests all that they held dearest on earth, that upon the might of their armed resistance everything depended, and that they held upon their shoulders the greatest responsibility of manhood.
An uproarious shout of welcome greeted their approach. Only the mothers who had just lost their sons wept piteously at sight of the country’s finest flower of manhood, which probably by tomorrow would also lie slain as those of their dear ones who had fallen today, their corpses mercilesslly crushed by the melée.
An unbearable ache seized old Zakhar Berkut’s heart also when he gazed upon those youths and thought how proudly Maxim would have stood out from among them. But what was the use in thinking! One cannot return the dead and only those who are alive can think living thoughts and perform living deeds.
Their elation had not yet subsided at the arrival of the needed assistance, the folk-mote had not had time yet to get started on any discussion or deliberation when there appeared from the forest depths on a sunny glade above the Tukholian narrows, a new and unexpected host. Lying close and holding on to his neck, in order to more swiftly and safely ride through the forest without getting caught on overhanging branches, rode some person towards them as swiftly as the foaming horse, bleeding from numerous cuts torn by branches and thorns, could carry him. Who this could be it was hard to guess at that distance. The person was dressed in a Mongolian sheepskin coat, with the fur side turned out, and wore a handsome beaver-skin turban. The youths took the rider to be a Mongolian scout and advanced towards him with drawn bows. But having left the forest and neared the bank of the precipitous bluff from which it was necessary to climb down into the Tukholian valley, the supposed Mongol dismounted from the horse, removed his sheepskin coat and revealed himself to all the as-
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