sorbed, grave-faced monk, but he was not pleased with any of them, not one stayed with him the required year or carried away any of the secrets of his marvelous knowledge of healing. It was to this monk that Zakhar Berkut finally applied, determined to outlast his period of trial.
Thus, having arrived at the Scythian monasteries, he asked to be brought before the ancient monk Akenthia, to whom he frankly told the mission of his journey. The grey-bearded, morosely frowning old monk Akenthia, accepted Zakhar without comment. And Zakhar stayed, not just a year, but three. He emerged from the monasteries a new man, his love for his people increased to even greater proportions, his words flowing cogently, calmly, intelligently and to the point, self-assured in their knowledge, crystal-clear pearls of wisdom; but against deceit, untruth, biting sharp as a razor.
In the four years that he was away Zakhar had acquired some knowledge of the world. He had been to Halich and Kiev, seen the kings and learned about their system of government, made friends with the boyars and merchants. All that he heard, observed and experienced, his unspoiled, keen young intellect filed away into the treasure-store of memory as food for meditation and future use. He returned from his travels not merely a proficient healer, but a leader. His indomitable will, patient statesmanship, loftiness of aim, lifted him out of the petty incidents of his age. His life became one long mastery of difficulty after difficulty.
Observing how in the valleys beyond the Carpathians the kings and their boyars were striving to weaken and destroy the people’s democratic, cooperative self-government in their cities and villages, by setting up differentiations of class among them, so that in the ensuing chaos and disorder the people might be the more easily shorn of their power and turned into serfs, Zakhar Berkut became convinced that for the fellow citizens of his community there was no other means or hope for their
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