Chapter II
The ancient community of Tukhlia was one of the largest settlements in the Carpathian Ranges consisting of, besides Tukhlia proper, two or three surrounding hamlets, the whole comprising a total population of about 3,000. This village and its environs were located not where lies the present Tukhlia but higher up towards the middle section of the ranges, in a distended, spacious valley now covered over by a dense forest of giant spruce and hemlocks, which is called “The Lost Valley”.
Long ago, when this story was enacted, “The Lost Valley” was a richly productive area of land supplying its inhabitants with an abundance of the necessities of life. About three miles long and one and a half wide, the smoothly rolling valley was encompassed by immense, precipitous walls of rock so that it resembled a huge kettle from which the water had been emptied. That probably was exactly what had happened. High up from a crevice in the hard rock of the eastern wall, a cataract catapulted down into the valley and wound its serpentine way across it and out through another narrow outlet in the opposite wall of rock, hurtling down between its smooth rocky banks, breaking into several cascades for about three-quarters of a mile before it emptied into the Opir river.
The high, steep banks of the Tukholian basin were rimmed with a murky forest of giant pines which when viewed from below seemed to give the kettle-shaped valley even a greater depth and an indescribable, silent desolation, as if it were a sphere complete in itself, removed from the rest of the world. In truth, it was a real mountain stronghold, accessible only with the greatest of difficulty. But in those days of ceaseless warfare when not only persons but communities as well were subjected to continuous attacks, the Tukholians were thankful for their isolation and preeminently because of it, were they able to continue to preserve their independent, ancient Rus, democratic form of government longer than the villages at the base of the Carpathian Ranges, all of which were now gradually passing into the hands of the booty-rich, privileged class of boyars.
The people of Tukhlia made their living mostly from breeding and pasturing domestic animals. Only the Tukholian valley where the village and hamlets were situated lent itself to agricultural cultivation. Here rich harvests of oats, barley and millet were reaped every year. In the upland downs and glades of the forest, which were not individually owned but the property of the entire community, grazed flocks of sheep, representing the chief treasure store of the mountaineers, supplying them with wool for their clothing and flesh for food.
In the woodlands adjacent to the villages the people pastured their cattle, but the rough, mountainous nature of the region forbade the raising of great numbers of these heavier, clumsier animals.
The Tukholians’ second most important source of supply was the forests. Not only were they well furnished with firewood and lumber for building purposes, but also were able to obtain from them an abundance of wild life, honey and fruit.
True, life in this rude mountainous woodland region was hard, exacting a continuous struggle with the savage forces of nature, snow, wild beasts, floods and the entire surrounding untamed primeval wilderness, but this struggle and the hardships of the life had been conducive to the development of a hardy, courageous and resourceful people whose freedom-loving spirit made possible the preservation and continuance of their highly democratic and orderly form of government.
The sun had rolled far down from its mid-day position when high up over the Tukholian basin our well-known company of huntsmen descended, guided by Maxim Berkut. In the lead, preceded by Maxim, were Tuhar Wolf and his daughter, Peace-Renown. The rest followed them in small groups discussing the experiences of the hunting trip. The Tukholian valley, lit by the bright rays of the hot, mid-afternoon sun, appeared before the eyes of the company, like a huge, translucent lake with tiny black pebbles peeping from its depths. Enclosing it, stood the sheer walls of rock, like an immense stone fence, covered only here and there by patches of lichen growth and raspberry brambles.
At the entrance to the valley roared the waterfall, smashing its way downward, breaking against the rocks into silvery foam. By the side of the cascading stream, cut out of the live rock, was a narrow cart road by means of which the ascent could be made upward to the very top and over the crest of the Ranges, to the other side of the Carpathians into Hungarian territory. This highway was known to the mountaineers simply as the “Tukholian Trail” and considered by them as safer and more convenient than the Duklanian. Ten surrounding districts of the principality of Halich as well as of the Hungarian side of the Carpathians labored almost two years in the clearing of this pass. Since the residents of the Tukholian valley had put in the greatest amount of time and work in its construction, they were as proud of it as if it had been cut through exclusively by themselves.
“Look, Boyarin,” said Maxim, pausing at the cataract, near the twisting, rock-hewn trail. “There you see the handiwork of the Tukholians. It leads as you can see, to away over the Beskid, the topmost range of the Carpathians. It is the first trail of its kind in these upper stretches of the mountain country. My father cut through more than fifteen yards of that road himself. Every footbridge, every curve and cross trail and as a matter of fact, its entire length was constructed under his direction.”
The boyar glanced upward none too approvingly at the winding trail which stretched far above the catapulting, foaming emerald and silver cascade. Following it with his eyes downward to where it led into the valley, he shook his head and said, “Your father must certainly hold a strong rein over the community!”
“Rein, Boyarin?” questioned Maxim, surprised. “You are mistaken, sir! No one individual in our Tukhlia holds any rein, only the people themselves. But my father is a very learned and wise man, he gladly serves the community. When he stands up to speak at the municipal meetings, no one in all Carpathia can equal his eloquence or the wisdom of his words. Although the community listens to and follows his advice, my father has no special privileges and wants none.” Maxim’s eyes lighted up with the fire of his pride and admiration whenever he spoke of his father.
At these words, Tuhar Wolf hung his head in deep thought. Peace-Renown stared at Maxim with renewed interest and no little astonishment. While she was listening to Maxim’s description of his father, it seemed to her as if she had known him all her life and that she would surely find in him a kindred spirit. But Tuhar Wolf’s sullen, downcast mood increased. His forehead wrinkled in annoyance and his eyes, which had long withheld their antagonism, now turned angrily upon the speaker.
“So, it is YOUR father who is stirring up a rebellious attitude among the people of Tukhlia against me and the king?” he questioned reproachfully.
Peace-Renown was alarmed at her father’s words and his tone of voice. She paled looking from her father’s face to Maxim’s, uneasily. However, Maxim did not seem angered by the words and replied calmly, “Stirring up a rebellious attitude against you, sir? No, that is not true. You have been falsely informed. Rather the whole community resents the fact that you are using their pasturing grounds and forests as if they were your own without troubling yourself to ask their permission to do so.”
“Oh, so I have to ask the permission of your community, do I? I might inform you that the king gave me permission to use these forests and downs. I don’t need to ask for any other.”
“That is exactly what my father has told the citizens, Boyarin. He is trying his best to calm them and advises them to wait for a decision by the folk-court session at which time the matter will be taken under consideration.”
“The folk court!” cried Tuhar Wolf contemptuously. “Am I to be given to understand that I will be tried by this court?”
“I think you will find that it will be to your own advantage, Boyarin. You will have the opportunity then of explaining to the people just what your rights are in the matter, which may serve to quiet them once and for all.”
Tuhar Wolf turned from him in disgust. They were proceeding along the trail where it curved in the center, in order that its descent might thus be rendered less precipitous and perilous. Maxim, walking behind them, could not keep his eyes off Peace-Renown. But his face no longer glowed with happiness as it had a short time before. The more Tuhar’s face clouded with annoyance and resentment, the surer Maxim felt that a deep and impassable abyss was widening between himself and Peace-Renown. But the simple and unworldly mountain youth, knowing little of the heights of boyar ambitions, had hardly guessed how infinitely vast and impassable that barrier actually was.
They had now descended into the valley. At the base of the waterfall flowed a wide, peaceful stream, clear as crystal. Near its banks whispered large caps of foam, forming themselves into heaped-up necklaces of glistening pearls. Amid large and small sharply pointed rocks sticking up from its visible bottom wriggled gleaming pearly white and red-speckled trout. In the center, at the base of the cataract, thundered a silvery column of cascade, reflecting from the sun all the prismatic colors of the spectrum.
“What a marvelous sight!” exclaimed Peace-Renown, admiring the shimmering, colorful waterful catapulting along its rocky path, set off by an overhanging ledge of dark green spruce trees in contrast.
“This is our Tukhlia, our paradise!” replied Maxim, sweeping his eyes over the valley, mountain range and waterfall with a visible expression of such pride as few kings seldom bestow upon their own kingdoms.
“Only for me you are poisoning life within this paradise,” retorted Tuhar resentfully.
No reply was made to this remark. All three kept walking along wordlessly. They were nearing the village of Tukhlia where neat, wooden-shingled houses nestled in closely related groups, their yards hedged by mountain-ash, willow and wide-limbed pear trees. The people were all out, working in the fields. Only the stately, silver-haired, old grandfathers moved about the yards whittling something, making nets for fish or animals[1] and here and there gathered in groups to discuss the affairs of their community. Maxim nodded to them or shouted cheery greetings.
After a time Peace-Renown also greeted the ancients of Tukhlia whom they passed on the road. Only Tuhar Wolf walked along frowning morosely, without so much as a glance at the “smerdi”[2] who dared to rebel against the will of his king.
Nearing the center of the village, they noticed approaching them a singular company of men. Three old men, dressed in their Sunday best, were carrying a cerise red, silver-edged flag unfurled from a tall, beautifully carved and silver-encrusted pole. The flag was suspended by a large silver-trimmed chain, carved out of one solid piece of wood.
The three old men marched along slowly. They stopped in front of each homestead and called its owner by name. When one of its occupants appeared, they called out to him:
“Come tomorrow to the folk-mote!” and marched on.
“What in the world are they doing?” asked Tuhar, as the old men neared them.
“Why haven’t you ever seen anything like this before?” asked Maxim unbelievingly.
“No, I haven’t. We have no such custom in Halich,” replied Tuhar.
“They are the town-criers, summoning the people to the folk-mote,” replied Maxim.
“Oh, I thought they were priests carrying a church banner!” laughed Tuhar sarcastically. “In our section, when a meeting is called, it’s done quietly, passed on by word of mouth from house to house.”
“Well, here the call to meeting is made by the district heralds and standard bearers who go through the streets summoning each citizen by name. They will call you also, Boyarin.”[3]
“Let them call. I won’t come! Your folk-mote can have no interest for me. I am here by the will of the king and can hold my own meetings whenever I think it is necessary to do so.”
“You will call a town meeting yourself?” exclaimed the astounded Maxim. “Without our consent and unassisted by our criers and our district banner?”
“I have my own heralds, my own banner and my own consent,” replied Tuhar Wolf.
“But none of our people will attend your meetings. Our community abides only by those resolutions passed by the folk-court.”
“We’ll see about that!” retorted Tuhar stubbornly.
They were now abreast of the town criers who, perceiving the boyar, stopped and lowered the pole of the banner to the ground in front of them. One of the criers raised his voice and called out, “Boyar, Tuhar Wolf!”
“Present!” answered the boyar sullenly.
“Come tomorrow to the folk-mote!”
“What for?”
But the criers made no answer to his question, merely passed on their way.
“It is not their duty to answer questions,” explained Maxim, trying to avert any added disinclination the boyar might entertain against attending the meeting.
After a protracted interval of silence while they proceeded through the village streets, Maxim spoke again, “Sir, will you permit an humble but sincere young man to give you some advice?”
“Go ahead, speak!” replied the boyar.
“Come to the meeting tomorrow!”
“And put myself at the mercy of your peasant court?”
“Even so; you can rest assured, sir, that the Tukholian folk-court always gives an honest judgment. You would not consider it a disgrace to be judged fairly would you?”
“Please, father,” put in Peace-Renown, “do as Maxim asks you. I’m sure he is doing it all for your own good. He saved my life, father, that ought to prove he is not against you. He knows the ways of the people here and so can best advise you what to do.”
Tuhar smiled in spite of himself at this excellent display of feminine logic, but in a moment his forehead again wrinkled with irritation and displeasure. “So, you too, are taking Maxim’s side?” he cried. “Of course he saved your life and I am grateful to him for that. Any time you or he asks me, I will give him a pair of oxen.. But you are speaking here of a matter in which neither you nor Maxim have any right to concern yourselves.”
“No doubt, your insinuations, Boyarin, that I expect a reward is meant to belittle my dignity as a person. But you can rest assured that neither I nor my father will accept any reward from you! The fact that I ask you to come to the meeting tomorrow is done purely out of sincere friendliness because I would like to see a better understanding come about between you and the community.”
“Well, in that case then, all right!” replied Tuhar, somewhat mollified. “I’ll come to your folk-mote tomorrow, not to surrender myself to its will, mind you, but just to listen to what they have to say.”
“Do come, do!” exclaimed Maxim, elated, “You’ll see and be convinced yourself that the Tukholians know how to be just.”
Tuhar’s change of mind seemed to lift an oppressive weight off Maxim’s heart. He felt gayer and resumed conversing confidently with Peace-Renown, pointing out to the left and the right of them spots of special interest or beauty and there was much they passed which was both beautiful and interesting.
They had arrived at the center of the village of Tukhlia and of the valley. The precipitous banks, hemming in the kettle-like valley, loomed in the distance like gleaming columns of marble. The stream flowed through the center, right by the roadside, gurgling and foaming over its rock-strewn bed, refreshing the entire valley with its coolness. The natural, high banks of the stream were further fortified by dikes constructed of fragments of rock washed down by the stream from the mountainside and huge logs of pine, to protect the village from spring floods. Here and there foot bridges with convenient hand railings spanned the stream. Directly behind the dikes were planted beds of beans and peas, set in neat rows, their vines twining themselves around the bean poles. There were also plots of beets and cabbages and fields of wheat which stretched like long green ribbons away beyond the houses.
The yards of the cottages were fenced in and cleanly kept, their surfaces smoothed over with a mixture of clay and dung. The outer walls of the cottages, built of smoothly planed logs, were not smudged over with clay but several times during the year washed and scraped to sleek glossiness by hand with the aid of bits of shell or pumice stone found in the bottom of the stream. Only in the lower corners where it was impossible to fit the logs tightly together, clay was used to seal the crevices. Each house was white-washed, presenting a bright and jolly aspect, peeping from among fresh green willows, or mountain ash, and pear trees by which each homestead was surrounded.
Behind the houses were the stables, barns and other farm buildings, wooden-shingled also and built of thick planks. Only the rounded, yellow-gold peaks of innumerable straw roofs sheltering stacks of grain or hay gleamed here and there between the high four pillars which supported them.
The entrance to each residence was guarded by two eucalyptus trees between which swung a gate of twigs of intricately woven pattern. To the topmost perch of every gate was nailed a swift flying bird of prey such as an owl, jayhawk, eagle or crow, its wings outspread as if in flight and its head bowed, representing the guardian spirit of the house.
“There is my father’s residence,” said Maxim, pointing to one just like the rest among them. There was no one about the place but the door to the hallway was slightly ajar. In the southern wall of the house were two square-cut openings which in the summer-time were either left entirely open or were screened-in by a thin partition of perforated lime-stone. In winter, thick, wooden blinds were nailed over these openings. They were the windows of the period.
Peace-Renown gazed upon the Berkut homestead with its gateway guardian, a newly killed giant eagle whose iron-like grip of steel talons and black, hooked beak still seemed to threaten violence, with a mixture of curiosity and gravely absorbed interest. An atmosphere of serenity pervaded the place attracting the wayfarer to its cheery brightness. The entire piece of property was cut off from the main road by the crystal stream of water, softly murmuring and foaming against a rocky dam and spanned by a small bridge. Tuhar glanced towards the house and said, “Oh, ho, so this is where the sage of Tukhlia resides. I certainly would like to meet him and see what manner of bird he is!”
Maxim wanted to bid the boyar and his daughter farewell and to turn in at the bridge, but something urged him to go on along with them. Peace-Renown seemed to sense his mood.
“Are you going to leave us now?” she asked, turning her face away to hide the sudden emotion which swept over it.
“Well, I was just going to do that, but I’ve changed my mind. I think I will go on a ways further with you, through the pass, up to the trail leading to your house.”
Peace-Renown was over-joyed at this, not knowing herself why she should be. And they continued on down through the village, talking, enjoying the scenery, each other’s company, the sound of their voices, completely lost in each other’s eyes, forgetting the presence of the father and the whole village about them. Although not a single word in the progress of their conversation made the slightest reference to themselves, or to their emotions and hopes, there trembled through their most casual remarks the warmth of a powerful, magnetic, enduring attraction which drew the two fine and healthy young people unconsciously together. Nor did they apprehend in their innocence the difficulties they would encounter in the fulfilment of their first love.
But Tuhar Wolf, who walked ahead of them ruminating upon some way by which to impress the gathering on the morrow with his importance and superiority, was completely unaware of what was transpiring between the two young people. However, he was annoyed with the audacity of the youth in conducting himself with him and his daughter as if he were their equal. But for the time-being, he decided to keep his anger in check and to let the matter pass..
They had left the village and were nearing the spot where the kettle-shaped valley closed in upon itself, permitting the passage of only a narrow stream of water through a craggy gate of rock in the precipice. The sun had rolled down low over the top of the forest below, reflecting its thin rays in the stream of foaming water. The jagged crags of rock which transfused the flow of the stream from the Tukholian valley cast long shadows while the chill of twilight had already descended over the narrowest point of the slippery pass. Below, the stream of water dashed itself against a huge bowlder while overhead the stiff, spring evening breeze soughed in the pine and beech trees. A trail had also been cut out of the rock on each side of the stream by the Tukholian mountaineers.
An icy tremor shook Peace-Renown when she entered the extraordinary rocky gateway. Whether it was from its chill dampness or from some premonition, the fact was, she took hold of her father’s arm and pressing close to him, exclaimed, “What a fearful place!” stopping midway in the narrow corridor, looking up at the arch of rock. The place was indeed an awesome one, perhaps no more than about three yards wide and so smoothly carved out of the wall of rock by the force of the swiftly cascading stream that one would almost swear it had been made by man. Guarding the entrance of this narrow pass was an immense, thick column of rock at the bottom worn thin by the action of the water while its top was formed almost in the shape of a huge head and covered with a growth of ferns and dwarfed birches. This was the famed “Sentinel of Tukhlia” which safeguarded the entrance to the valley, ready to fall upon and crush to death anyone who came there with evil intentions towards the inhabitants of the peaceful, fortunate paradise. Tuhar Wolf himself felt a chill creep up his spine as he looked at the fearful guard.
“Tchfu! Tchfu! What a dangerous-looking stone devil!” he spat, “hanging over the passageway as if it were ready to fall upon one at any moment!”
“This is a sacred stone, Boyarin,” explained Maxim reverently. “Every spring the people decorate him with wreaths and garlands woven of the sacred fire-flower. He is the guardian of our Tukhlia.”
“Oh, bah! Everything here is yours, everything is sacred, everything belongs to the Tukholians, until it’s nauseating to listen to you!” cried Tuhar disgustedly. “As if there was no other world outside your precious Tukhlia!”
“To be quite honest,” replied Maxim, “that is exactly how we feel. We love our Tuhlia above all other places in the world. Now, if everyone loved his section of the world as much as we love ours, all the people would live happily and peacefully always.”
Maxim in his sincere purity of heart was evidently unaware how deeply he had cut into the heart and offended the boyar by this remark. Nor did he notice the hateful look Tuhar Wolf cast in his direction. Turning to Peace-Renown again, Maxim continued on loquaciously, in an even, warmly cordial tone, “There is an interesting story about this Sentinel. I’ll tell it to you as I heard it from my father:
“It seems that a long, long time ago, when the giants lived in and roamed over the Carpathian Ranges, our Tukholian basin was a huge lake, entirely closed so that the water flowed over its top. It was an evilly enchanted lake with not a sign of life in it. The animals who drank from it had to die and any birds who flew over it, had to fall in and be drowned. This lake was under the influence of Morsanna, the Goddess of Death. But it so happened that the king of the giants quarreled with his mate and to spite her, he dealt the rocky basin such a mighty blow with his giant mallet that he cracked one of its walls and the water all seeped out of it thus breaking the evil spell. The whole section at once came alive. The bottom of the lake became a fertile valley, green with tall, wild grasses and bright with flowers. The stream which flowed through it, became filled with fish. Among the rocks slid various kinds of snakes and in the woodlands appeared wild animals and birds.”
“Morsanna the Goddess of Death was, of course, infuriated because she hates living things and to punish the king she turned him into the stone which is now the Sentinel of Tukhlia. But to the valley itself she could do nothing, for once the waters of death had flowed out of the lake, she could not make them return. Had she been able to return every drop of the water into the enchanted lake and to seal this crevice in the rock, then she would again be ruler over this region. Although the king of the giants is dead, Morsanna does not have any power to rule here either. But the king is not entirely dead. His spirit is present in that column of stone and guards the entrance to the valley. It is said that someday Morsanna will regain her lost power and try to rule over our Tukhlia once more, but when that happens, this enchanted Sentinel will fall upon Morsanna’s evil force and crush it to death.”
Peace-Renown listened raptly, fascinated by the tale, sympathizing with the benign king of the giants who was so ready to fight with the evil Morsanna for the protection of the Tukholian inhabitants. Her heart filled with tenderness towards Maxim. How warmly and whole-heartedly she loved him at that moment!
Although Tuhar Wolf listened to Maxim’s story, it was easy to see that he was not greatly impressed by it. Turning once more to gaze up at the Sentinel of Tukhlia, he curled his lips in a disdainful smile as if he thought, “What silly fools these peasants, to put all their faith and hope in such ridiculous superstitions!”
They passed beyond the narrowest section of the stream and were once more in open daylight. Suddenly before their eyes appeared the long expanse of the Opir valley which, hemmed in by the winding, undulating crests of mountain ranges, stretched far out to meet the valley of Strey. The sun was setting, dipping its hot purplish-red rays in the wide, oscillating waves of the Opir river. The Tukholian stream roared and foamed madly downward to bathe itself in the Opir, whose waters, reflecting the last rays of the sun, resembled blood flowing from a deep wound. All around them rose the murmuring of the wind in the murky forests.
They stopped a moment, drinking in the unforgettable glory of the scene. Maxim seemed to be swayed by a strong emotion which was forcing him to give it utterance. Finally he took courage, moved nearer to Tuhar Wolf, trembling and blushing and began: “Father Boyarin!” in an abashed and unnaturally mild tone.
“What is it?”
“I want to become your most devoted servant . . .”
“Servant? Oh, of course! Come with your father tomorrow and be hired, if you’ve a mind to really work for me.”
“No, Boyarin, you misunderstand me. What I mean is . . . I want to be your son . . .”
“My son! But you have a father and from what I hear of him, a much better, more just and wiser one than I, since he is going to try me tomorrow!” the boyar said with a wry smile.
‘‘What I meant to say,” Maxim corrected himself, “is that I want to marry your daughter, whom I love dearer than life, more than my soul!”
If a thunderbolt had suddenly dropped out of the blue and struck the ground in front of him, Tuhar Wolf would not have been as shocked as he was by this passionate but plain-spoken declaration of the youth. He stepped back a pace or two and surveyed poor Maxim up and down with a piercing, blazing fury. Rage had turned his face purple, clenched his teeth and trembled upon his lips.
“Lout, boor!” he exploded wrathfully at last so that the very hills reverberated with the damning sound of his outcry. “What is that speech you have just dared to address to me? Repeat it! It can’t be that I heard aright!”
This furious exclamation by the boyar, returned to Maxim his usual cogent self-composure. He drew himself up to his full height before the boyar and said in a calm, assured tone of voice, “There wasn’t anything in my speech, sir, that should offend you, nothing in it that would bring dishonor either upon you or your daughter. I merely asked for her hand in marriage because I love her more than anyone else in the world can possibly ever love her. Is the difference then between your boyar rank and mine really so vast that love could not bridge it? And in what manner aside from that, are you above me?”
“Enough, fool, enough!” Tuhar spluttered angrily. “My hand is upon the hilt of my sword itching to stop your stupid throat from further utterance. Only one thing prevented my using it already and that is that you saved my daughter’s life today. Otherwise you would this moment be lying at my feet for daring to speak to me the way you have just now. Ignorant peasant that you are, how dare you so much as raise your eyes in the direction of my daughter? Is it because she and I spoke to you as if you were a human being instead of kicking you like a dog? Or did you think that since you saved her from the clutches of the savage beast that you have a right to her as if she were a captive girl? Oh, no! If it had to come to that, I’d rather have seen her perish in the deadly embraces of the bear than that she should fall into your hands!”
“Please do not say that, Boyarin! Rather would I have perished myself than that one single hair of her head should have been harmed!”
At these words Peace-Renown turned her face away from them no longer able to hold back the long-threatening tears which now streamed down her face freely. Tuhar Wolf paid no attention but kept right on talking.
“You low-breed son of a stinking peasant, how dare you to put yourself on an equal footing with me? Imagine it, with me, who have spent all my life in the company of princes and who have been honored and rewarded by them for my heroic deeds! Why, my daughter can choose a mate from the very best and most prominent boyar families in the country, why should I give her away to you, a common, low-brow peasant, to take with you into your Tukholian hut where she would wilt and wither and die in poverty? No, no, no! Away, you poor deluded child! You know not what you’re saying! You must have spoken in a fit of insanity!”
Maxim at last was fully convinced that his hopes would never be realized, that the boyar considered himself too far above him, looking down upon him as unworthy of his notice even. Needless to say, he was greatly disappointed, but there was nothing he could do about it.
“Boyarin, Boyarin,” he said grievously, fervidly, “Too high have you raised yourself upon the wings of pride, but take heed! Fate often raises those highest whom she intends to cast down the lowest. Do not look down upon the poor, sir, the humble workers, for who knows to what well you may yourself yet come to drink?”
“You boorish lout, how dare you have the temerity to lecture me!” stormed Tuhar, his eyes flashing angrily. “Get out of my sight at once, or I swear to God I won’t be held responsible for plunging this stiletto into your chest just as I did to the bear this morning, regardless of the debt I owe you.”
“Do not take offence, Boyarin, at the words of an ignorant youth,” answered Maxim quietly. “Farewell!”
“And farewell to you, my star, who shone so wondrously for me for a day and now must be lost to me forever! Farewell, and may fortune smile sweetly upon you!”
“Wait! I have something to say about this, too!” cried Peace-Renown, turning towards them resolutely. “Fear not, dear youth, I shall not be lost to you, but will be yours!”
Tuhar Wolf, astounded by these words, stared at his daughter not knowing what to do.
“My child, what are you saying!” he interjected.
“Exactly what you hear, father dear. I’m willing to be his. I love Maxim. Father, let me become his wife!”
“You foolish girl, that’s impossible!”
“Just try and you’ll see that it is possible!”
“You’re delirious, child, emotionally upset from being frightened this morning by the ferocious beast!”
“No, father, I’m perfectly well and in my right mind. I repeat, and swear by the rays of the setting sun that this youth must be and shall be mine! Oh sun, be my witness!”
And slipping her firm hand into Maxim’s she reached up on tip-toe and pressed her warm, sweet lips to his.
Tuhar Wolf was dumbfounded. He could not move or utter a single word.
“Now, Maxim, you can go home and don’t let anyone or anything discourage you. Peace-Renown has vowed that she will be yours and Peace-Renown knows how to keep a promise!”
“Come father, let’s be on our way. There’s our house yonder and here come our guests.”
Having said this, the amazing girl took her stupefied father by the arm and led him down the hill.
Maxim stood rivetted upon the spot for a long time enchanted in his happiness. And when at last he came to himself, he fell upon his face before the last pale rays of the sun and prayed fervently, as had his ancestors for ages past, and as did his father secretly now. Then he arose and quietly wended his way homeward.