The dark, flushed face turned pale again,

And weaker grew the heavy breathing.

Its eyes rolled back, and soon Ruslan

And magus knew that all was over:

A spasm, and the Head was gone.

The knight rode off at once, much sobered;

As for the dwarf, he did not dare

To breathe, and, all his past strength losing,

To fiends in hell addressed a prayer,

The language of black magic using.

Where a small nameless streamlet wound,

Upon the sloping bank above it,

By dark and shaded forest covered,

There stood, nigh sunk into the ground,

A run-down hut. Thick pine-trees shaded

Its roof. The waters, somnolent,

Licked lazily at a much faded

And worn-down fence of reeds and went

With gentle murmur round it snaking;

The breeze -w softly, only making

A faint sound.... There it was that spread

A vale, and such was its seclusion,

It gave one the distinct illusion

That an unbroken silence had

Here from the birth of Time been reigning.

Ruslan now stopped his horse. The weaning

And peaceful night to morn gave way;

The grove and valley sparkling lay

"Neath veils of haze. His sleeping bride

The prince laid on the grass, and, seating

Himself beside her, close, he sighed

And looked at her, his young heart beating

With dulcet hope. Just then a boat's

White sail he glimpses, and there float