Sleep left his couch. Of iniquity Sickened his spirit at last; Shades of his victims appeared to him, Crowding in multitudes vast. Long was this monster most obdurate, 300 Blind to the light from above, Then flogged to death his chief satellite, Cut off the head of his love,-- Scattered his gang in his penitence, And to the churches of God All his great riches distributed, Buried his knife in the sod, Journeyed on foot to the Sepulchre, Filled with repentance and grief; Wandered and prayed, but the pilgrimage Brought to his soul no relief. 311 When he returned to his Fatherland Clad like a monk, old and bent, 'Neath a great oak, as an anchorite, Life in the forest he spent. There, from the Maker Omnipotent, Grace day and night did he crave: "Lord, though my body thou castigate, Grant that my soul I may save!" Pity had God on the penitent, 320 Showed him the pathway to take, Sent His own messenger unto him During his prayers, who thus spake: "Know, for this oak sprang thy preference, Not without promptings divine; Lo! take the knife thou hast slaughtered with, Fell it, and grace shall be thine. "Yea, though the task prove laborious, Great shall the recompense be, Let but the tree fall, and verily 330 Thou from thy load shalt be free." Vast was the giant's circumference; Praying, his task he begins, Works with the tool of atrociousness, Offers amends for his sins. Glory he sang to the Trinity, Scraped the hard wood with his blade. Years passed away. Though he tarried not, Slow was the progress he made. 'Gainst such a mighty antagonist 340 How could he hope to prevail? Only a Samson could vanquish it, Not an old man, spent and frail. Doubt, as he worked, began plaguing him: Once of a voice came the sound, "Heh, old man, say what thy purpose is?" Crossing himself he looked round. There, Pan[58] Glukhovsky was watching him On his brave Arab astride, Rich was the Pan, of high family, 350 Known in the whole countryside. Many cruel deeds were ascribed to him, Filled were his subjects with hate, So the old hermit to caution him Told him his own sorry fate. "Ho!" laughed Glukhovsky, derisively, "Hope of salvation's not mine; These are the things that I estimate-- Women, gold, honour, and wine. "My life, old man, is the only one; 360 Many the serfs that I keep; What though I waste, hang, and torture them-- You should but see how I sleep!" Lo! to the hermit, by miracle, Wrath a great strength did impart, Straight on Glukhovsky he flung himself, Buried the knife in his heart. Scarce had the Pan, in his agony, Sunk to the blood-sodden ground, Crashed the great tree, and lay subjugate, Trembled the earth at the sound. 371