In the celebrated city of Murom, near to Katatscharowa, there lived a countryman named Ivan Timofejevitch. He had one son named Ilija, the Muromer, and of him he was very fond. He was thirty years old when he began to walk. Then, all of a sudden, not only did he become strong enough to go about, but also made himself a suit of armour and a steel spear. Then he saddled his horse, went to his father and mother, and asked them for their blessing, saying—
“Father and mother of mine, let me go to the celebrated town of Kiev, to pray to God and to see the prince.”
His father and mother gave him their blessing, and said to him—
“Go, then, to the town of Kiev, to the town of Tschernigof, and do no wrong on your way, and spill no Christian blood wantonly.”
Ilija, the Muromer, received their blessing, and prayed to God. Then he bid his parents farewell, and went on his way. He travelled so far in a dark forest that at length he came to the hold of some robbers. As soon as the robbers saw the Muromer, they began to wish for his beautiful horse, and they said one to another—
“Let us seize this horse, which is so beautiful that its like has never been seen, and let us take it from this unknown fellow.”
So they all, five-and-twenty, set upon Ilija, the Muromer. Ilija reined in his horse, took an arrow out of his quiver, put it on the string of his bow, and shot it into the ground with so much force that the pieces of earth flew over three acres. When the robbers saw that they looked at one another with astonishment. Then they threw themselves on their knees, and said—
“Master and father, we have wronged you. If you want to punish us take our treasure, our fine clothes, and as many of our horses as you like.”
“What should I do with your treasure?” said Ilija. “If you want to keep your lives, see that you do not do the like in future.” So he went on to famous Kiev. He came at length to the town of Tschernigof, and found it beset by an army of pagans, so great that no one could tell their number. They wanted to destroy the town, tear down the churches, and carry off the princes and nobles as slaves. When Ilija, the Muromer, saw the army he was afraid, but he placed confidence in the Highest, and braced himself up to die for the Christian religion. So he attacked the pagan army, put them to flight, took the chiefs prisoners, and carried them to Tschernigof. When he came to the city the folk ran out to meet him, the prince and the nobles coming first. They gave him thanks, and then went with him to offer up praise to God, who had preserved the town safe, and not allowed it to be overthrown by so large an army.
Then they conducted Ilija to the palace, and entertained him at a great feast. After that Ilija, the Muromer, went straight on to Kiev, along a road which the Robber Nightingale had kept for thirty years, and on which he suffered no horseman or traveller on foot to pass, putting them to death, not by the sword, but by the sound of his robber whistle. When Ilija came into the open fields he rode on to the Bianski forest, and went far on, passing over marshes, by means of bridges made of water-elder, to the river Smarodienka. When the Robber Nightingale saw him about twenty versts away, he guessed his errand, and sounded his robber whistle. But the hero did not quail, and came on till he was only ten versts off, when the robber blew his whistle so loudly that Ilija’s horse fell down on its knees. Then Ilija went up to the robber’s nest, which was built upon twelve oaks. When the robber saw the hero he blew with all his might and tried to kill him, but Ilija took his bow, put a new arrow on the string, shot it straight into the robber’s nest, and hit the robber in the right eye. Robber Nightingale fell down from the tree like a sheaf of oats.