“Soon Whirlwind will fly home,” said the Tsaritsa to Ivan Tsarevich. “Sit under my purple robe, so that he may not see thee; and when he comes and runs to embrace and kiss me, do thou seize his club. He will rise high, high; he will bear thee over seas, over precipices: but see to it, let not the club go out of thy hand. Whirlwind will grow tired, will want to drink the water of strength, will come down to the cellar and rush to the tub placed on the right hand; but do thou drink from the tub on the left. Then he will grow weak; wrest his sword from him, and with one blow hew off his head. When his head is off, that moment there will be voices behind thee crying, ‘Strike again, strike again.’ Strike not, my son, but say in answer, ‘A hero’s hand strikes not twice, but always once.’”
Ivan Tsarevich had barely hidden under the robe when the court grew dark and everything trembled. Whirlwind flew home, struck the earth, became a brave hero, and entered the castle, in his hands a club.
“Tfu, tfu, tfu! somehow it smells of Russia here. Was any one visiting?”
“I don’t know why it seems so to thee,” said the Tsaritsa.
Whirlwind rushed to embrace her; but Ivan that moment seized the club.
“I’ll eat thee!” shouted Whirlwind.
“Well, grandmother spoke double; either thou wilt eat, or thou wilt not.”
Whirlwind tore out through the window and up to the sky; he bore Ivan Tsarevich away. Over mountains he said, “I will smash thee;” over seas he said, “I will drown thee.” But Ivan did not let the club out of his hands. Whirlwind flew over the whole world, wearied himself out, and began to sink. He came down straight into the cellar, rushed to the tub on the right hand, and fell to drinking the water of weakness; but Ivan ran to the left, drank his fill of the water of strength, and became the first mighty hero in the whole world. He saw that Whirlwind had become utterly weak, wrested the sharp sword from him, and cut off his head with a blow. Voices cried behind, “Strike again, strike again, or he will come to life!” “No,” said Ivan; “a hero’s hand strikes not twice, but always finishes at a blow.” Straightway he made a fire, burned the body and the head, scattered the ashes to the wind.
The mother of Ivan Tsarevich was glad. “Now, my dear son,” said she, “let us rejoice. We will eat; and then for home with all speed, for it is wearisome here,—there are no people.”
“But who serves thee?”