With a quick movement he tore the figured 'dalys' on his chest, and plunged a knife up to the hilt into his heart.
He stood for a moment, his fading glance passing round them all,—then staggered, and fell.
A single great sigh burst from the crowd.
Oltungaba hastily knelt down beside the dying man, uncovered his breast, and placing his right hand near the wound, stretched his left towards the sun, crying:
'Oh, thou God ruling all things, help us,—shield us! We are not the last, and not the lowest, if we can send forth hearts like these!'
'Hearts like these!' groaned the crowd.
All, even the stout Kniaź, felt at that moment as if their hearts beat with the same readiness for sacrifice as that which was growing cold under Oltungaba's hand.
'He was a warrior,' whispered the shaman after a moment, and picking up the 'dalys,' he threw it over the face, quivering in its death agony.