When Marko heard this, tears poured down his cheeks and he lamented: “Alas! Gracious God forgive me, I have killed a better knight than I am!”
Then he struck off Moussa’s head with his sword, put it into Sharatz’s nose-bag and returned triumphantly to Istamboul. When he flung the head of Moussa before the Sultan the monarch was so horrified that he sprang to his feet. “Do not fear the dead, O gracious Sultan! If thou art frightened by the sight of Moussa’s head, what wouldst thou have done if thou hadst met him alive?”
The Sultan gave three tovars of gold to Marko, who returned to his castle at Prilip.
As for Moussa the Bully, he remained on the top of Katchanik Mountain.
THE DEATH OF PRINCE MARKO
In the early dawn of a Sabbath morning Prince Marko paced the sea-shore. Soon he came to a bridle path that led up the slopes of the Ourvinian mountain, and as he got near to the mountain top, his faithful Sharatz suddenly stumbled and began to shed tears. His moans fell sadly upon Marko’s heart and he addressed his favourite thus: “Alas! dear Sharo, my most precious treasure! Lo! we have dwelt happily together these many summers as beloved companions; till now thou hast never stumbled, and to-day for the first time thine eyes do weep: God alone knows what fate awaits us, but I can see that my life or thine is in great peril and that one of us is surely doomed to die.”
When Marko had spoken to his Sharatz thus, the veela from the Ourvinian mountain called to him: “My dear brother-in-God! O Royal Prince Marko! Knowest thou not, brother, why thy horse is stumbling? Thy Sharatz is grieving for thee, his master. Know that ere long ye must be divided!”
Marko answered: “O thou white veela! May thy throat cause thee pain for speaking thus: How in this world could I ever part from Sharatz, who through many a land and many a city hath borne me from dawn till sunset; better steed never trod our earth than Sharatz, and Marko never better hero. While my head is on my shoulders, never will I be severed from my beloved steed!”
And the veela called again: “O my brother, Royal Prince Marko, there is no force which can tear thy Sharatz from thee; thou canst not die from any hero’s shining sabre, or battle-club, or lance of warrior; thou fearest no hero on earth—but, alas! thou must die, O Marko! Death, the ancient slayer, will smite thee. If thou wilt not believe me, hasten to the summit of the mountain, look to the right and to the left, and thou wilt presently see two tall fir-trees covered with fresh green leaves and towering high above the other trees of the forest. Between those fir-trees there is a spring; there alight, and bind thy Sharatz to one of the fir-trees; then bend thee down and the water will mirror thy face. Look and thou shalt see when death awaits thee!”