send them a swift messenger," said Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck.
As he fitted a fiery dart to his stout bow, Ilya conjured it saying, "Fly, little dart, to yonder pavilion. Tear through the roof and pierce the white breast of my brother-in-arms, Samson, that glorious hero of Holy Russia, and make a small scratch—not a wound which you would bestow upon one of the Golden Horde,—for the hero Samson sleepeth and taketh his ease while I stand here alone and have need of his help."
The shaft made a stream of blue light through the air, and reaching the pavilion tore a flaming path through the roof, but too quickly for the linen to catch fire, and made a small scratch upon the white breast of Samson, rousing him from his heavy sleep. He opened his eyes, gazed upwards, and saw the rent in the roof of the pavilion. Then he was aware of a slight discomfort on his breast, looked down, saw the scratch, and leapt lightly to his nimble feet.
"Ho, there," he cried aloud, "ye mighty heroes of Holy Russia, saddle your good steeds without delay and mount with speed. A message of distress has come from my brother-in-arms, and had it not been for the cross upon my breast it would have honoured me with a wound fit only for one of the Golden Horde."
Roused at last the heroes took their chargers from the scattered wheat, saddled them and rode them towards Kiev town; and Ilya noting this from his point of vantage came down from the mountain to
