the chorus of voices from the gathered populace. “We will defend our liberty and our independence to the last drop of our blood!”
“Very good, my children!” replied Zakhar Berkut, deeply moved. “It is the only way! It seems to me as if the very spirit of our benevolent Giant Sentinel has entered your hearts today for you have rightly sensed the symbolic import of our banner. ‘Why is it red?’ It means blood! To the very last drop of their blood the people of our municipality and our country should defend their freedom and their inviolable right to a democratic form of government! You can take my word for it that the time is not far off when the shedding of your blood will be demanded of you. Let us make ready then to defend ourselves!”
That instant all eyes as if at a given signal turned towards the village. At the entrance to the trail which led by the waterfall and up towards the crest of the mountain ranges, appeared a group of proudly dressed, fully armed men. This was, in all his pomp and resplendence, the boyar Tuhar Wolf and his guard of mercenaries coming to the Tukholian meeting. Regardless of the heat on the late spring day, the boyar was in full military regalia, garbed in shining steel armor replete with palettes and knee-pieces and a shining steel helmet topped with a tuft of cock’s feathers fluttering in the wind. At his side, in its sheath, hung a heavy sword. Slung over his shoulder was a bow and a “saydak” filled with arrows and tucked behind his belt a battle axe, its sharp wide blade and bronze head gleaming in the sun. Over all this fearsome armor, to indicate his peaceful intentions, the boyar had draped a sheepskin, its mouth converted into a clasp on his chest and its paws with their sharp claws clasping his waist. Accompanying the boyar were ten archers and battle-axe carriers also dressed in sheepskins but without the armor. The gathering shuddered involuntarily at sight of the advancing company; they all realized
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