Then went forth the old Cossack, Ilyá of Múrom, from that tent of white linen, into the free and open plain. And the pagan Tartars began to press upon him and tried to surround him, hoping to gain possession of the old Cossack’s gear. Ilyá saw that he must bestir himself, and he seized a Tartar by his feet and began to swing him round, began to strike the Tartars with the Tartar, till they began to flee from him. And the old Cossack went thus through the whole Tartar army, and came forth into the free and open plain, and cast the Tartar on one side. Then Ilyá walked on through the open plain, and he had neither horse nor weapons, but he whistled a mighty whistle, and his good steed heard him on the open plain, and galloped to the old Cossack his master. The old Cossack, Ilyá got upon his good steed and rode on through the plain till he came to a high hill, and he leapt up the hill and looked down towards the west. And in the west near the white tents stood the good horses of the heroes. Ilyá turned that way with his good war-horse. He took his strong bow and bent it with his white hands. He tightened the bowstring of silk, placed the sharp arrow, and into the white tent shot he that arrow, saying: “Fly, O sharp arrow, fly to the white tent. Take the roof off the white tent, and go, thou arrow, to the white breast of my godfather. Creep thou into his breast and make a scratch, only a small scratch, a small scratch, not a large one. He sleeps there and takes his ease, and little can I do here alone.” And he let go the silken bowstring and sent off that sharp arrow, and that sharp arrow whistled into that hero’s white tent. It took the roof off the white tent and fell upon the white breast of Samson. It crept into his white breast and made but a small prick, and Samson, the renowned hero of Holy Russia, woke up from his deep sleep and opened his bright eyes. Quickly he stood upon his nimble feet and cried: “Ho! my renowned heroes of Holy Russia! Quickly saddle your good horses and mount them. From my beloved godson has flown a sharp arrow through my glorious white tent. From my tent it took the roof, and the arrow crept into my white breast, made a small prick, not a large one. The cross at my neck preserved me, Samson, the cross at my neck weighing forty stone. Had that cross not been upon my breast, my tempestuous head would have been torn off.” Then all those heroes of Holy Russia quickly saddled their good horses and rode through the open plain, towards Kiev town, to the Tartar army. And from the high hill the old Cossack, Ilyá of Múrom, saw them, as they rode their good horses. He came down from the high hill and rode to meet the Russian heroes. Twelve in number were the heroes and Ilyá was the thirteenth. They rode up to the Tartar host and pushed on their heroic steeds and began to fight the Tartar army. And they were trampling on the great army, and they came to the linen tent.