Now the old hero carried no money, only seven thousand golden ducats had he with him, and of small money, forty thousand pieces. And the horse the hero rode was priceless. Why was the hero’s horse priceless? Because these was no price for the horse.
When he came to a river he looked for no ford. Now the river was a full mile wide, but the good steed leapt from bank to bank. Then Ilyá saw a village near by and the villagers—brigands, as we say in our Russian tongue—rode out after the hero. They swept round him and tried to rob him, tried to part him from his life and soul.
Then said Ilyá of Múrom, son of Iván:
“Oh come, brother villagers, no reason have ye to kill an old man like me. And ye shall take nothing from the old man.”
He took from his saddle his tough bow and brought out from his quiver a sharp arrow. He bent his bow and fitted the arrow to the silken string, and [[34]]shot—not at the village folk—brigands though they were—for he would have been loth to slay them, but he shot at the green oak tree; and the bowstring sang in the tough bow, the villagers fell from their horses, the arrow struck the crackling green oak tree and shattered the oak into chips and shavings. By this heroic deed of thunder the brigand villagers were filled with fear, and for five hours they lay without sense, and Ilyá made sport of them.
“Come, come, good youths, you village brigands! Why do you lie half the night there upon the damp earth? Why go off to sleep and sleep half the night? On my way here I passed many people both on horseback and on foot; you have let many a good chance escape you.”
The goodly youths stood up upon their nimble feet and threw themselves at Ilyá’s feet and said:
“O thou brave hero! come and join our band and be thou our chieftain.”
The good hero, Ilyá of Múrom, answered them:
“I desire not to join your band; I am on my way to Kiev town, to Vladímir the Prince, to help him, and to fight and defend him.”