Again they all mounted their good steeds and rode on. The ploughman’s mare went on at a trot, but Volgá’s horse had to gallop to try to get up to the ploughman’s mare, and Volgá’s horse was left behind. Volgá began to wave his cap, and he shouted: “Stop, good ploughman. If that mare of yours were a horse, I would give five hundred for that mare.” The ploughman answered him: “Stupid is Volgá, the son of Svyátoslav. I took the mare as a foal from the dam, and I paid five hundred for that mare when she was a foal. If the mare were a horse, she would be priceless!” Said Volgá, the son of Svyátoslav: “Here, good ploughman-farmer, by what name art thou called? What is thy father’s name, and whence comest thou?” And the ploughman answered him: “Well now, Volgá, son of Svyátoslav, I plough the fields for rye, I build my ricks, I stack my corn, I lead it home; when I’ve brought it home, I grind the corn, I split wood, and I brew beer. When I have brewed beer I give it to the peasants to drink. And the peasants call me Young Mikúla, the villager’s son!” III. SVYATOGÓR. There was once a great Russian Hero who was so big and strong that no one could stand up against him, and he fancied that with his great strength he could do anything. One day he made up his mind to go out for a ride on the plain, the great open plain in Russia, where one can ride for miles without seeing anything but the long waving feather grass. He saddled and bridled his good horse, got upon his back and rode out on the open plain. In his heart he was glad; yes, he was glad—yes, and overflowing with strength, and he said to himself: “So strong do I feel that if I could find something to take hold of I could lift up the whole world!” He rode on a long way and presently saw another man on horseback ahead of him. The man did not look round, but he let fall a small wallet such as a man often carries across his shoulder or across his horse. Svyatogór saw it lying on the road and tried to push it away with the end of his whip; it did not move. He bent over and touched the wallet with his fingers, but he could not move it. He stooped down from his horse and grasped the wallet with his hand, but he could not lift it. “Many years have I journeyed upon this earth,” said he, “but never have I come upon so strange a thing. Such a wonder have I never seen. A little wallet, a bag, that will not be pushed away, that cannot be moved out of the way, and that cannot be lifted up!” The hero got off his good horse, stooped and grasped the bag with both hands; he lifted it a little higher than his knees, but he sank down into the earth as far as his knees, and, not tears, but blood, ran down his white face, and as he sank down he could not rise again. The man who was riding in front turned round and rode back to him. Svyatogór asked: “What was in that wallet to make it so heavy?” The man answered: “The weight of the whole world.” “Who art thou?” asked Svyatogór.