Then said the hero Svyatogór: “Thou hast done well, little brother, in that thou didst not do my last bidding. I should have breathed upon thee with the breath of the dead, and thou wouldst have lain dead by me. Now, farewell; take my sword of steel, but lead my good horse to my tomb; none but I must own that horse.” Then came from the chink the last breath of the hero. Ilyá said farewell to his friend, girded on his sword of steel, but left the hero’s horse by his master’s tomb, and he rode away into the free and open plain. V. ILYÁ OF MÚROM AND NIGHTINGALE THE ROBBER. The green oak bows not down to the earth, Leaves of paper do not grow. Ilyá had made up his mind to go to Kiev town to seek service with the gracious Prince Vladímir, but before setting out on that long journey he wished to see his father again and ask for his blessing, so he rode back to Múrom and to his old home. He found his old father there and greeted him, saying: “Come thou, my own dear Father! I am here to ask for thy blessing. I go to glorious, royal Kiev town to pray at the sanctuary of Kiev and to pledge myself to Vladímir the Prince, to serve him in faith and in truth, and to uphold the Christian faith.” The old farmer Iván blessed Ilyá and said: “I give thee my blessing for the good work, but for evil work no blessing I give. Go thou on the right road, and do no harm to any woman whether she be Christian or Tartar.” Ilyá of Múrom bowed to the earth before his father, and said farewell to his mother and his sisters and brothers, and then he mounted his good horse and rode through the open plain. With his whip he struck his horse on the curved hind quarter and his restive steed was wroth and suddenly sprang from the earth and bounded higher than an upright tree, almost as high as a moving cloud. At the first bound he passed twelve miles, at the second bound he came to a well. By the well Ilyá cut down a green oak tree, and beside the well he built a small chapel, and upon the chapel he wrote his name, ILYÁ OF MÚROM, SON OF IVÁN, so that if some strong and mighty hero should ride that way, he should know the name of the builder of that chapel. At the third bound Ilyá’s horse brought him to the town of Chérnigov. Near Chérnigov there stood a countless host of Tartars, and at their head were three Princes, each with the strength of forty thousand. On seeing this vast horde the hero’s heart grew hot within him, and he could not control his longing to fight. His heart was filled with fires, and it burned too as if scorched by frost. Then he spoke and said: “I desire not to go against my father’s wish, or knowingly to disregard his command.”