“I die, little brother. Bend down again so that I may breathe once more upon you, and this time give you all my heroic strength.”
Then Ilya spoke, and as the words came from his lips he felt as if a voice within him framed them in despite of his own desires.
“My strength is enough, elder brother; if I had more, then moist Mother Earth would not be able to bear me.”
“You have done well, younger brother,” said the voice of Svyatogor, “in that you have disobeyed my last command. Had I breathed upon you again, it would have been with the breath of death. And now, farewell! Take my great battle-sword, which you have fairly won, but tether my good steed to my iron-bound tomb. None but Svyatogor may ride that horse.”
Then Svyatogor spoke no more, and stooping to the crevice Ilya was no longer able to hear the whisper of his breathing. So he bound the good steed to the casket, girt the great battle-sword about his waist, and rode forth upon Cloudfall into the open plain. But as he turned away, he saw the tears of the imprisoned Svyatogor flowing in a crystal stream through the crevice in the iron-bound casket on the lonely hills.
