Prince Vladimir paced to and fro in his chamber, chewing his moustache, and occasionally heaving a heavy sigh when no one was near. Meanwhile, the cleaning and the brewing were proceeding apace, for as Princess Apraxia said quietly, “There is nothing lost by cleanliness, and a good store in the larders and the cellar, for who knows which of our friends will sleep in the clean beds and partake of our cheer.”
“Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck is no more,” said Prince Vladimir bitterly. “There is no hero to fight for our faith and fatherland. There is none to defend Prince Vladimir.” When the busy Princess heard these words she paused for a moment in her work and said, “Little father, command thy trusty servants to go to the deep dungeon and see whether Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck be even yet alive.” Then she went on with her dusting, for the china bowls and cups from Farthest East were always her own particular care.
“Foolish princess,” said her husband, pausing in his pacing to and fro. “If I cut off your light head, will it grow again? How can the youthful aged one be alive after three years’ starvation?” The Princess said nothing, but went on with her work, and in a few moments Vladimir himself went off to the dungeon on the desperate chance. And there, to his wonder, he found Ilya lying on cushions of down, with food of the richest and wine of the greenest on a table beside him, on which was also spread a wonderful written parchment of the Holy Gospels.
Vladimir was so much astonished to find Ilya not only alive and well, but to all appearance very comfortable and happy, that he bowed to North, South, East, and West, and then particularly to the hero. “Come forth, Ilya,” he said, as if he had taken no share in the Old Cossáck’s imprisonment. “Come forth, and defend us against the Golden Horde, for the sake of the widows and orphans which are to be.” Ilya smiled gently and rose slowly from his seat of comfort, for three years’ restraint had somewhat stiffened him. Then Vladimir hastened to take him by the hands, as if he had quite forgiven him for a crime which he had never committed, and leading him to his own table, placed him in the great corner and heaped food of the best before him.
But Ilya was not hungry, and he left the table without a word, for he wanted heroic exercise most of all. In the open field he saw Cloudfall grazing quietly as though his master had ridden him only yesterday; and you may be quite certain and absolutely sure that no other rider had during the past three years sat on the back of the faithful shaggy bay steed. The horse gave a joyful chuckle when Ilya once more drew near to him, and as his master proceeded to saddle him he turned his head about and gazed upon him with heroic approbation.
Certain of the people of Vladimir’s palace saw Ilya mount upon Cloudfall, but they did not see him as he rode away, so swift was his flight—there was but a smoke wreath on the open steppe and streams of water burst forth where good Cloudfall’s hoofs beat upon the ground. He gave a great leap upwards and alighted on the crest of a lofty mountain, from whence he looked out across the open plain to see if any of the heroes were within sight who had come out to defend Holy Russia against the Golden Horde of the Tatars.
Far away in the east he saw the white linen pavilions of the heroes who had helped him to form the barrier against Falcon the Hunter, and the sun shone brightly on their golden embroideries. At the opening of one snowy tent his keen eyes could descry even at that distance how the fine wheat had been shaken out upon the earth for the delight of a hero’s charger, and how that same hero had planted upright a spear of heroic height and hung upon it a golden tassel, not for vanity of youthfulness, but as a signal to all the enemies of Holy Russia that a champion abode within that pavilion. As he stood there with his hand shading his eyes Ilya saw another hero come to that vicinity and, even at that far distance, he knew him for the young man of supernatural wisdom—Nikitich, who could both read and write. He saw how the new-comer pitched his pavilion, shook out fine wheat for his charger’s delight, planted a lofty spear and displayed two tassels, not for vanity of youthfulness, but to show that a hero and a scholar abode in that pavilion.
Then Ilya came down from the mountain-top, and before you could say Svyatogor he had arrived in the space between the two upright staffs, where he gave Cloudfall the rein that he might take his share of the fine wheat, planted his own lofty spear and hung three tassels upon it, as a sign that a hero, a scholar, and a landed gentleman had come to the assistance of Holy Russia against the Golden Horde. He now entered one of the snowy pavilions, where he found twelve Russian heroes sitting at meat, who all rose to their feet, kissed him and bade him welcome, whereupon they sat down again to go forward with the business of eating. But as he was not yet hungry Ilya did not join them. He hastened to explain his mission, and asked for their help in defending Kiev town, Vladimir, and Princess Apraxia. But one of them said:
“Nay, nay, Ilya of Murom, we will not mount our steeds to defend Kiev town, Vladimir, and his Princess. For he has many princely nobles, whom he feasts right heroically and upon whom he bestows the richest gifts.”
“It will be the worse for all of you,” said Ilya, in great anger, and their voices rose in wrath so that the good steeds raised their heads from the fine wheat and looked with intelligent wonder through the opening of the pavilion.