The white Vila answer’d princely Marko: “Brother, listen!—listen, princely Marko! Force will never tear thy Sharaz from thee; Vainly ’gainst thee would the arm of hero Be uplifted—not the shining sabre, Not the battle-club—nor lance of warrior. Earth no hero holds who can alarm thee;— But the brave must die—and thou art mortal; God will smite thee—God, the old blood-shedder. {99} But if thou would’st doubt the mountain Vila, Hasten to the summit of the mountain, Look to right and look to left around thee: Thou wilt see two tall and slender fir-trees, Fir-trees towering o’er the mountain forests; They with verdant leaves are cover’d over; And between the fir-trees is a fountain. Look! and afterwards rein back thy Sharaz, Then alight, and bind him to the fir-tree: Bend thee down,—and look into the fountain; Look—as if the fountain were a mirror; Look, and thou shalt see when death awaits thee.” Marko did, as counsell’d by the Vila. When he came upon the mountain summit, To the right and left he look’d around him; Then he saw two tall and slender fir-trees, Fir-trees towering high above the forest, Covered all with verdant leaves and branches. Then he rein’d his faithful Sharaz backwards, Then dismounted—tied him to the fir-tree; Bent him down, and looked into the fountain, Saw his face upon the water mirror’d, Saw his death-day written on the water. Tears rush’d down the visage of the hero: “O thou faithless world!—thou lovely flow’ret! Thou wert lovely—a short pilgrim’s journey— Short—though I have seen three centuries over— And ’tis time that I should end my journey!” Then he drew his sharp and shining sabre, Drew it forth—and loosed the sabre-girdle; And he hasten’d to his faithful Sharaz: With one stroke he cleft his head asunder, That he never should by Turk be mounted, Never be disgraced in Turkish service, Water draw, or drag a Moslem’s Jugum. {101} Soon as he had cleaved his head asunder, Graved a grave he for his faithful Sharaz, Nobler grave than that which held his brother. Then he broke in four his trusty sabre, That it might not be a Moslem’s portion, That it might not be a Moslem’s triumph, That it might not be a wreck of Marko, Which the curse of Christendom should follow. Soon as he in four had broke his sabre, Next he broke his trusty lance in seven; Threw the fragments to the fir-trees’ branches. Then he took his club, so terror-striking, In his strong right hand, and swiftly flung it, Flung it from the mountain of Urvina, Far into the azure, gloomy ocean. To his club thus spake the hero Marko: “When my club returneth from the ocean, Shall a hero come to equal Marko.”