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 such a pathetic state. His freshly washed face was bloodless, lips cracked from the smoke and eyes glazed from fatigue and emotional duress, his legs trembling under him as if he were a hundred year-old man for, having stood upon them a minute, he could no longer hold himself up but collapsed on to the ground. The Mongols withdrew from the tent.

The boyar gazed upon Maxim thoughtfully for a long time. What reason was there for him to hate the young man? Why had he brought upon his young head such horrible suffering? Why had he not ordered him killed at once instead of allowing him to undergo this slow, inevitable death, for it was certain that the Mongols would not release him alive and that as soon as they got tired of dragging him along with them, they would butcher him like an animal and cast him by the roadside. And for what had he come to hate this poor young man? Was it because he had saved his daughter’s life? Or was it because she had fallen in love with him? Was it for his upright, princely bearing and courage, his honesty and frankness? Or was it because he had considered himself his equal? Now they HAD become equals, they were both prisoners and both unfortunate. Tuhar Wolf felt his anger and dislike towards Maxim die down like the exhausted flames of a fire for which there is no more fuel. He had already, as soon as Maxim had been taken prisoner, tried to make friends with him, not from any real desire for his friendship but through craftiness. However, Maxim had refused to even speak to him. Of course the boyar offered him such advice as it was impossible for Maxim to accept. He had counseled him to go into the service of the Mongols and lead them through the trail over the crest of the mountains, promising him a substantial reward. If he refused, he threatened that the Mongols would kill him. “Let them kill me!” was the only answer the boyar had gotten from him. Strangely enough, even then those proud words which bore witness to Maxim’s staunch