Then the men of Chernígov did slowly reverence to the good youth, and besought him that he would reveal his name and abide in Chernígov to serve them as their Tsar, King, Voevóda,--what he would; and that he would likewise accept at their hand a bowl of pure red gold, a bowl of fair silver and one of fine seed pearls. “These I will not take,” Ilyá made answer, “though I have earned them: neither will I dwell with you either as Tsar or peasant. Live ye as of old, my brothers, and show me the straight road to Kíev town.” Then they told him: “By the straight road it is five hundred versts, and by the way about, a thousand. Yet take not the straight road, for therein lie three great barriers: the grey wolf trotteth not that way, the black raven flieth not overhead. The first barrier is a lofty mountain; the second is the Smoródina River, six versts in width, and the Black Morass; and beside that river, the third barrier is Nightingale the Robber. “He hath built his nest on seven oaks, that magic bird. When he whistleth like a nightingale, the dark forest boweth to the earth, the green leaves wither, horse and rider fall as dead. For that cause the road is lost, and no man hath travelled it for thirty years.” When Ilyá, the Old Cossack, heard that, he mounted his good steed, and rode forthwith that way. When he came to the lofty mountain, his good steed rose from the damp earth, and soared as a bright falcon over them and the tall, dreaming forest. When he came to the Black Morass, he plucked the great oaks with one hand, and flung them across the shaking bog for thirty versts, while he led good Cloudfall with the other. When he came to Mother Smoródina, he beat his steed’s fat sides, so that the horse cleared the river at a bound. There sat Nightingale the Robber (surnamed the Magic Bird), and thrust his turbulent head out from his nest upon the seven oaks; sparks and flame poured from his mouth and nostrils. Then he began to pipe like a nightingale, to roar like an aurochs, and to hiss like a dragon. Thereat good Cloudfall, that heroic steed, fell upon his knees, and Ilyá began to beat him upon his flanks and between his ears. “Thou wolf’s food!” cried Ilyá, “thou grass bag! Hast never been in the gloomy forest, nor heard the song of the nightingale, the roar of wild beast, nor serpent’s hiss?” Then Ilyá brake a twig from a willow that grew nearby, that he might keep his vow not to stain his weapons with blood, fitted it to his stout bow, and conjured it: “Fly, little dart! Enter the Nightingale’s left eye; come out at his right ear!” The good heroic steed rose to his feet, and the Robber Nightingale fell to the damp earth like a rick of grain.