that tremendous stroke, so as to strengthen the cover rather than weaken it.
"I stifle, younger brother," cried the imprisoned hero. "Try the effect of another blow upon the lid of the fatal casket." Then Ilya smote the cover lengthwise, and the sound of the blow re-echoed more loudly among the Holy Mountains; but the only effect was to raise another ridge of iron upon the lid. Again the imprisoned hero spoke imploringly.
"I die, little brother. Bend down again so that I may breathe once more upon you, and this time give you all my heroic strength."
Then Ilya spoke, and as the words came from his lips he felt as if a voice within him framed them in despite of his own desires.
"My strength is enough, elder brother; if I had more, then moist Mother Earth would not be able to bear me."
"You have done well, younger brother," said the voice of Svyatogor, "in that you have disobeyed my last command. Had I breathed upon you again, it would have been with the breath of death. And now, farewell! Take my great battle-sword, which you have fairly won, but tether my good steed to my iron-bound tomb. None but Svyatogor may ride that horse."
Then Svyatogor spoke no more, and stooping to the crevice Ilya was no longer able to hear the whisper of his breathing. So he bound the good Steed to the casket, girt the great battle-sword about
