“My sweetheart, Maxim!” said Peace-Renown, as soon as the boyar had left the tent, twining her arms around his neck, kissing his pale, chapped lips. Don’t worry! The Mongolians won’t get out. They will all meet their death here!”
“My little star, my precious darling, Peace-Renown!” replied Maxim sadly, “How glad I would be to believe this, but their numbers are too great and ours too small.”
“Reinforcements from the mountain crest communities and from the Hungarian side of the Carpathians have been sent to aid us.”
“Their weapons are inadequate.”
“Don’t worry even about this. Listen, one hundred axes are chopping away in the forest. In a little while, one hundred campfires will flame above the valley and by each campfire your carpenters will be making engines with which to hurl stones into the very heart of the Mongolian entrenchment.”
“But who thought of all this? Who showed our carpenters how to make these engines?”
“I did, darling. I often observed and examined such machines which stand on the top of the walls in Halich. Before the sun rises from behind Mt. Zelemenya fifty such machines will be hurling stones on the heads of the Mongols.”
Maxim hugged Peace-Renown, pressing her with fierce joy close to his heart. “Light of my life!” he said. “You will yet be the deliverer of our Tukhlia!”
“No, Maxim!” said Peace-Renown. “It is not I who will be the redeemer but your father. What are my engines but poor toys against such a foe? But your father will release a more potent power, which no enemy can withstand.”
“What sort of power?” asked Maxim.
“Listen!” said Peace-Renown. Unbroken peace reigned everywhere, only far off in the distance, muffled peals of thunder rolled along the Carpathian battlements, detonating.
“It’s thundering,” said Maxim. “So, what of it?”
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