which the people fled to the hills and caves, about the ancient giants and their king, the Tukholian Sentinel, who released the enchanted waters of the Tukholian lake.
The Tukholian elders listened to these tales as if to news of some new, unheard of world. Many things about which they had talked and of which they had sung without understanding them, were now clearly defined in vivid word images and Zakhar Berkut himself seemed to them to be the last of those benevolent Tukholian giant sentinels or guards around whose remarkable exploits the succeeding generations would also weave legends.
Suddenly there was a snapping of dry twigs on the path and Peace-Renown accompanied by Tuhar Wolf appeared from the forest blackness. Peace-Renown came straight towards old Zakhar while the boyar stopped by the campfire.
“Father,” said Peace-Renown to Zakhar, “I saw your son!”
“My son?” replied Zakhar Berkut quietly, as if speaking of the dead.
“Yes. With the help of this ring I passed by the Mongolian guards and talked with him. We can expect, father, that he’ll soon be free.”
“It’s very hard, daughter, very hard! But who is this that came with you?”
“It is I, old man,” said Tuhar Wolf stepping forward, “do you remember me?”
“I remember your face . . . you were the boyar, Tuhar Wolf. What brings you here to us?”
“I came to you, Tukholian elders, as an emissary of peace from the great behadir Burunda, the commander of the Mongolian army.”
“What does Burunda-Behadir want from us?” asked Zakhar.
“Burunda-Behadir commands me to say to you that his army is legion and unconquerable. It is useless, therefore, for
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