Above the dreaded chasm alone,

And from it comes, the spirit rending,

A call for help, a piteous moan....

'Tis she! He jumps, and flies apace,

To pierce the darkness vainly straining.

Through fathomless, night-mantled space,

And then, at long last bottom gaining,

Steps on hard ground.... Vladimir's palace

Before him towers.... He enters. There is

The old Prince with his grey-haired knights,

His twelve young sons, his guests, all seated

At festive tables. No smile lights

Vladimir's face. He does not greet him

And seems as wroth as on the dread

And well-remembered day of parting.

All silent stay, no banter starting,

No talk. But there-is not the dead

Rogdai among them, his past rival,

The one that he in battle slew?

Quite unaware of his arrival,

A froth-topped goblet of some brew

He gaily drains. Surprised, Ruslan

Espies Ratmir, the youthful khan,

And others, friends and foes, ringed near him;

The gusli tinkle, old Bayan

Of deeds heroic chants-to hear him

Is strange. Farlaf now enters, leading

Ludmila in. The Prince, receding

Into himself, his grey head bowed,

Says not a word. The silent crowd

Of boyars, princes, knights, concealing

What so disquiets, so dismays

And frightens them, quite moveless stays.