‘“Come down,” cried the hero’s wife’
Svyatogor looked round, and for the first time was aware of his bulging pocket. A little further investigation showed him that he was carrying a fine young man with broad shoulders, on which was set the unmistakable head of a hero. In a moment he had drawn Ilya from his deep pocket and was holding him aloft while he questioned him with knitted brows.
“Whence come you, young man?” he cried, and at the sound of that terrible voice the mountains shook, the forests waved, and the river found that its usual channel was not steady enough to contain it, while it occurred to Ilya that it would be best to tell the truth. So he said boldly enough, though his position could scarcely be described as dignified:
“It was the noble lady in the crystal casket who bade me come down from the oak, and who placed me in the pocket of your hero-ship.” Then the youth’s eyes were filled with terror, for a fierce frown suddenly creased the brows of Svyatogor, who turned in his saddle, after having seated Ilya before him, and hurled the crystal casket into the rushing, rocking stream.
“Lie there, faithless one,” he shouted; “it was surely of little avail to take you out locked up in a glass case if you were to speak to the first goodly young man you meet.” Then with a huge gesture of disgust he urged on his steed and took his way along the side of a rocky mountain, talking pleasantly to Ilya as if nothing had happened out of the ordinary. He asked the young man about his parents, his home, and the dearest wish of his heart, which he found was to meet himself, the famous hero Svyatogor.
“Yes, I am he,” said the rider as lightly as his huge size permitted, “and I would gladly come among you people of Holy Russia, but moist Mother Earth is too soft to bear me up, and I am forced to ride on the rocky crags and high precipices of the great mountains which are strong enough to bear the weight of myself and my steed. I will take you with me to the Holy Mountains, for you are a young man after my own heart.” And as they rode onward he told Ilya how a hero lived and how he did the deeds which roused the wonder and the fear of all men.
Suddenly Svyatogor said to Ilya, “When we come to my home, I will present you to my father. But before you meet him you must take care to heat a piece of iron in the stove, and when he comes with outstretched hand to greet you, take further care not to place your hand within his own, but let him grasp the heated iron.”
Ilya promised to follow the instructions of his friend, and before long they came across the craggy peaks to the Holy Mountains, and on the summit of one of them Ilya saw a wonderful palace of white stone. The hero rode forward to the gateway, where he was met by his aged father, whose beard swept his knees like a snow-drift. “Welcome, my dear child,” said the old man, to whose tenderness the giant on the mighty steed was still a loving youngster. “Welcome, and thrice welcome! Have you been far afield?”
“I have been in Holy Russia, my father,” was the reply. “And what saw you in Holy Russia?” asked the old man. “Nothing but melting snow and moist land,” said Svyatogor, “too moist indeed for the feet of my steed. But stay, I did meet with some one of note, and I have brought him with me.”
The old man quickly raised his head, but the movement was merely one of habit, for his eyes were sightless. Sadly he dropped his chin once more upon his breast, and said, “Bring to me the hero of Holy Russia that I may greet him.”