VII. THE RUSSIAN DEFEAT

And so it used to be. There were battles and campaigns, but there had never been such battle as this. From early morning to night, from evening to dawn there flew tempered arrows, swords rained down upon helmets, Frankish lances resound, and all this in the unknown prairie, in the Kuman land. The black earth under the hooves was strewn with bones, was covered with blood. Grief overwhelmed the Russian land.

What noise do I hear? What clinking comes to my ears so early in the morning, before the dawn? Igor turns about his troops. He is saddened by the fate of his brother, Vsevolod. They fought for one day. They fought for another day. At noon on the third day Igor's banners fell. Here, on the shores of the swift river Kaiala, the brothers parted. The wine of this bloody banquet was drunk to the last. The Russians gave their guests to drink from the same cup. They died for the Russian land. The grass withered from sorrow, and the saddened trees drooped earthward.