Svyatogor spoke not a word, but reaching forth his hands lifted the lid and covered the casket with it. Then he tried to raise it again, but found that it was easier to get into such a casket than to get out of it. He strove with all his mighty strength to lift the lid, but even this was of no avail, and he cried out through an aperture which still remained between the cover and the side of the casket, "Alas, my brother! It is clear that Fate, who is stronger than heroes, has entangled me at last. I cannot raise the lid. Try to lift it and live to say that you have rescued the prince of heroes." Ilya thereupon put forth all his strength but, strong as he was, he could not raise the lid. "Take my great battle-sword," said Svyatogor, "and strike a blow across the cover." Ilya grasped the sword, which his brother had unbuckled, before he lay down, but was not able to raise it from the earth, so great was its weight. "I cannot lift it," he said in disgust and despair, "to say nothing of wielding it." "Bend down to this rift," replied his elder brother, "that I may breathe upon you with my heroic breath." Ilya obeyed the command, and when Svyatogor had breathed warmly upon him, he felt new strength rise within him, so that he was three times the man he had been. He was now able to raise the sword and struck the lid of the casket a mighty blow, so that all the Holy Mountains re-echoed with the sound. Sparks of flame leapt from the lid of the casket, and an iron ridge was formed upon the stone in the path of that tremendous stroke, so as to strengthen the cover rather than weaken it. "I stifle, younger brother," cried the imprisoned hero. "Try the effect of another blow upon the lid of the fatal casket." Then Ilya smote the cover lengthwise, and the sound of the blow re-echoed more loudly among the Holy Mountains; but the only effect was to raise another ridge of iron upon the lid. Again the imprisoned hero spoke imploringly. "I die, little brother. Bend down again so that I may breathe once more upon you, and this time give you all my heroic strength." Then Ilya spoke, and as the words came from his lips he felt as if a voice within him framed them in despite of his own desires. "My strength is enough, elder brother; if I had more, then moist Mother Earth would not be able to bear me." "You have done well, younger brother," said the voice of Svyatogor, "in that you have disobeyed my last command. Had I breathed upon you again, it would have been with the breath of death. And now, farewell! Take my great battle-sword, which you have fairly won, but tether my good steed to my iron-bound tomb. None but Svyatogor may ride that horse."