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Read Ebook: The Irish Ecclesiastical Record Volume 1 November 1864 by
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Ebook has 70 lines and 5213 words, and 2 pages
So Ilya and his elder brother went into the palace of white stone and rested as long as they could, which was not really long, for one morning the sun shone and each found the other at the gate looking with longing eyes upon the world.
Now as he looked outward, Ilya saw to his surprise and pleasure that a horse was feeding near the outer wall of the palace of white stone. He looked more closely and found to his great delight that it was none other than his own good steed Cloudfall. Quickly he ran to the horse and gaily he greeted it, and before long he was mounted upon its back and racing to and fro over the moist grass before the palace of white stone. As he reached the gate for the third time, he found Svyatogor mounted also, and ready to set out with him in search of adventure. Then they rode out along the ridge of the Holy Mountains, and before long they came to a great casket with a lid lying by its side, and upon the lid was written the inscription, "This casket shall fit him for whom it has been hewn from the rock."
The inscription was a plain invitation to one of adventurous spirit, and in a moment Ilya had leapt from his horse and lay at full length within the casket. But it was too long and too wide for him, and he rose saying, "It is not for me that this casket was hewn from the rock."
"The casket was meant for me," said Svyatogor, quietly stepping into it and lying down. His words were true enough, for his heroic body fitted it as if he had been measured for it. "Take the cover, Ilya," he said, "and lay it over me." But his younger brother had no desire to perform an entombment of this kind and he said:
"I will not lift the cover, elder brother, and shut you up in such a manner. Surely you would amuse yourself with what is to me a jest of the poorest kind, if you would prepare for your burial in this way!"
Svyatogor spoke not a word, but reaching forth his hands lifted the lid and covered the casket with it. Then he tried to raise it again, but found that it was easier to get into such a casket than to get out of it. He strove with all his mighty strength to lift the lid, but even this was of no avail, and he cried out through an aperture which still remained between the cover and the side of the casket, "Alas, my brother! It is clear that Fate, who is stronger than heroes, has entangled me at last. I cannot raise the lid. Try to lift it and live to say that you have rescued the prince of heroes."
Ilya thereupon put forth all his strength but, strong as he was, he could not raise the lid. "Take my great battle-sword," said Svyatogor, "and strike a blow across the cover." Ilya grasped the sword, which his brother had unbuckled, before he lay down, but was not able to raise it from the earth, so great was its weight. "I cannot lift it," he said in disgust and despair, "to say nothing of wielding it." "Bend down to this rift," replied his elder brother, "that I may breathe upon you with my heroic breath." Ilya obeyed the command, and when Svyatogor had breathed warmly upon him, he felt new strength rise within him, so that he was three times the man he had been.
He was now able to raise the sword and struck the lid of the casket a mighty blow, so that all the Holy Mountains re-echoed with the sound. Sparks of flame leapt from the lid of the casket, and an iron ridge was formed upon the stone in the path of 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 his waist, and rode forth upon Cloudfall into the open plain. But as he turned away, he saw the tears of the imprisoned Svyatogor flowing in a crystal stream through the crevice in the iron-bound casket on the lonely hills.
ILYA AND NIGHTINGALE THE ROBBER
This is the story of the first of the nightingales, those sweet singers of the evening, each of whom, as the old books tell with certainty, sprang from a poppy seed. And the sower of the first seeds of the blood-red poppy was Ilya the Old Coss?ck, who rode the shaggy bay steed Cloudfall.
As for Cloudfall, the shaggy bay steed, it is well that you should try to picture him to yourselves. He had a mane of very great length, and a tail ten times as long as his mane, while the shaggy hair of his rough coat was of three colours or tints. He wore a bridle of leather plaited so as to be of enormous strength, twelve saddle-cloths and twelve felts , and over these coverings a strong leather saddle bound with metal. He had twelve girths made of finest silk, not for display and youthful vanity, but for strength and easiness of movement. His stirrups were of engraved steel brought from Damascus, where the good sword blades are marked with strange devices; the buckles were of bronze which moist Mother Earth is not able to rust, and which no amount of hard wear can in the least affect. Such was Cloudfall the shaggy bay steed of Ilya the Old Coss?ck.
One Easter morning Ilya took his way to church to greet his risen Master; and as he stood before the altar in the warm glow which lighted up the sanctuary, he vowed a mighty vow, "I will sing at High Mass on this very Easter Day in the royal town of Kiev, and I will go to Kiev by the straight way."
For a few moments Ilya stood in deep silence before the altar, as if pausing to gather strength. Then he vowed a second vow, and it was to this effect--as he took the straight way to the royal town of Kiev he would not stain his hand, nor yet the blade of his good keen sword with the blood of the accursed Tatars, the enemies of Holy Russia. A second time he stood in deep silence, as if pausing to gather still more strength. Then he vowed a third vow with his hand upon his mace of steel, and it was to the effect that though he would go by the straight way he would not make use of his fiery darts.
After a third space of silence Ilya left the church and came into the courtyard, where his shaggy bay steed Cloudfall was awaiting hi
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