“We have.”
“Is there anyone among you who can testify as to the truth of his testimony?”
“I can!” a voice answered from among the assembled.
The boyar started as if shot by an arrow at the sound of that voice and for the first time cast a sharp, fearful glance over the gathering.
“Whoever wishes to testify for or against this man, let him come up here in front of the gathering and present his evidence,” said Zakhar.
Before the town-mote came a man not yet old but crippled, with a leg missing from one side of his body and an arm from the other, his face furrowed by deep scars. It was Metko The Soldier, as he was called by the populace. A few years back, he had come to them limping on his wooden leg, recounting fearful tales of the Mongol invasion, the battle at the river Kalka and the concurrent defeat of the kings; how those taken prisoners were crushed to death beneath the boards which served the Mongolian commanders as seats at their repast. He, Metko, had also fought in the battle while in the service of a boyar with whom he was taken prisoner, and had somehow contrived to make good his escape from prison. For a long time he had wandered among the villages and cities of Rus, until at last he had chanced to come to the Tukholian valley retreat. He was so pleased with it that he wanted to settle down there for the rest of his life and because he could with his one hand weave pretty baskets and knew many songs and tales about far off lands, the community accepted him as a member, cooperatively feeding and clothing him. He was respected and honored by them for his wounds received in the defence of his country and loved by all for his honesty and cheerful disposition. This was the Metko who now came forth to testify against the boyar.
“Tell us, Soldier Metko,” Zakhar began his questioning.
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