tounded on-lookers as a woman, dressed in a fine, silk-striped, white linen coat with a bow slung over her shoulder and the gleaming blade of a battle-axe tucked neatly behind her belt.
“It’s Peace-Renown, the daughter of our boyar!” exclaimed the Tukholian youths unable to take their eyes off the beautiful, audacious girl. It was plain she hardly noticed them, but leaving her horse where she had dismounted, began to search about for a path by which to descend into the valley. Quickly her keen eyes discovered a passage downward almost entirely hidden by the wide pointed shoots of ferns and brambles of raspberry bushes. With confident step, as if she had been accustomed to it all her life, she let herself down this path into the valley and approached the gathering.
“Good day, estimable citizens,” she said, coloring slightly. “I hurried, to inform you that the Mongols are coming and will be here before nightfall, so that you might prepare yourselves to meet them.”
“We know all about the Mongols,” the voices rose from the assemblage. “That is no news to us.” The voices were harsh, unfriendly towards the daughter of the despicable boyar because of whom so many of their youths had perished. But she was not offended by their stern reprimand although she was fully conscious of it.
“It is all the better for me! Then you are already prepared,” she replied. “And now please direct me to Zakhar Berkut.”
“Here I am, young woman,” said old Zakhar, coming towards her. So great was the reverence he had won in her heart that Peace-Renown gazed upon him with deference and esteem for some time. “Let me inform you, venerable father,” she spoke in a voice tremulous with uncontrollable emotion, “first of all, that your son is alive and well. . . .”
“My son!” cried Zakhar, “Alive and well! Oh, thank God! Where is he? What is he doing?”
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