The dwarf has but a single thought:

That the young princess must be caught.

Thus did famed Lemnos' hobbling smith,

Accepting the connubial wreath

From the unrivaled Aphrodite,

Decide to snare her charms, delighting

The laughing gods by showing them

Of love the cunning stratagem.

One day the maid sat bored and weary

Inside a marble summer-house

And gazed abstracted through the boughs

Of trees by wind swayed at the cheery,

Bloom-covered meadow just beyond.

"My love!" she hears. Ruslan! The sound

Of his dear voice. He's there, in person:

His face, his form; but dull of eye

And pale is he, he bleeds, his thigh

Is gashed: a wound, a bad one. "Mercy!

Ruslan, 'tis you!" And with a cry

She flies to him, and, heartsore, shaking

In tears, says to him, her voice breaking:

"Ruslan, my husband, you are here

And wounded, bleeding.... Oh, my dear!"

Her arms go round him.... God in Heaven!

What horror's this! She cannot stir,

She's trapped, a net enmeshes her!...

The cap falls off. Who is her craven

And foul pursuer? Cold of limb,

She hears: "She's mine!" Her gaze grows dim....

The dwarf, none other! Quite defenseless

Is she again; she sees his face

And moans, but by the good Lord's grace

Dreams now enfold her, she falls senseless.

Poor child! What sight is there more chilling,