“Thou wolf’s food!” cried Ilyá, “thou grass bag! Hast never been in the gloomy forest, nor heard the song of the nightingale, the roar of wild beast, nor serpent’s hiss?”
Then Ilyá brake a twig from a willow that grew nearby, that he might keep his vow not to stain his weapons with blood, fitted it to his stout bow, and conjured it: “Fly, little dart! Enter the Nightingale’s left eye; come out at his right ear!”
The good heroic steed rose to his feet, and the Robber Nightingale fell to the damp earth like a rick of grain.
Then the Old Cossack raised up that mighty Robber, bound him to his stirrup by his yellow curls, and went his way. Ere long they came to the Nightingale’s house, built upon seven pillars over seven versts of ground. About the courtyard there was an iron paling, upon each stake thereof a spike, and on each spike the head of a hero. In the centre was the strangers’ court, and there stood three towers with golden crests, spire joined to spire, beam merged in beam, roof wedded to roof. Green gardens were planted round about, all blossoming and blooming with azure flowers, and the fair orchards encircled all.
When the Magic Bird’s children looked from the latticed casements and beheld the hero riding with one at his stirrup, they cried: “Ay, lady mother! Our father cometh, and leadeth a man at his stirrup for us to eat.”
But Eléna, the One-Eyed, Nightingale’s witch daughter, looked forth and said: “Nay, it is the Old Cossack, Ilyá of Múrom, who rideth and leadeth our father in bond.”
Then spoke Nightingale’s nine sons: “We will transform ourselves into ravens, and rend that peasant with our iron beaks, and scatter his white body over the plains.” But their father shouted to them that they should not harm the hero.
Nevertheless Eléna the witch ran into the wide courtyard, tore a steel beam of a hundred and fifty puds’ weight from the threshold, and hurled it at Ilyá. The good youth wavered in his saddle, yet, being nimble, he escaped the full force of the blow. Then he leaped from his horse, took the witch on his foot: higher flew the witch then than God’s temple, higher than the life-giving cross thereon, and fell against the rear wall of the court, where her skin burst.
“Foolish are ye, my children!” cried the Nightingale. “Fetch from the vaults a cartload of fair gold, another of pure silver, and a third of fine seed pearls, and give to the Old Cossack, Ilyá of Múrom, that he may set me free.”
Quoth Ilyá: “If I should plant my sharp spear in the earth, and thou shouldst heap treasures about it until it was covered, yet would I not release thee, Nightingale, lest thou shouldst resume thy thieving. But follow me now to glorious Kíev town, that thou mayest receive forgiveness there.”