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 raising the banner, they guided its staff into the hollow in the square stone block. This signified that the folk-mote was now in session.

Then from his place among the seated elders rose the oldest member of the community, Zakhar Berkut. Directing his slow but firm steps to the linden tree, he touched its bark and knelt down beside the spring bubbling forth from its source beneath the roots and dipping his finger tips into it, he passed them over his eyes and lips. This was the customary ritual, a very ancient one, considered to be necessary to clear the vision and purify the lips of those assuming the profound responsibility of deliberating upon matters vital to the welfare of the whole community.

Zakhar Berkut was over ninety years old, with hair as white as the wings of a dove, the eldest resident of the Tukholian valley and the father of eight sons, three of whom already occupied seats with him among the elders. Maxim was the youngest and like a stalwart young oak among the maples, already stood out from the crowd of youths, tall, commanding, clean-cut, rich in the experience of the life of the people, their character and their traditions.

Zakhar Berkut was the embodiment of those ancient patriarchs, the true fathers and leaders of their nation of whom sing the s and about whom our earliest chronicles were written. Despite his advanced age, Zakhar Berkut was strong and hard as flint. True, he no longer labored in the fields, herded the sheep or went hunting wild animals in the depths of the forests, but he did not stop working altogether. The orchards, bee-hives, herb-gathering and the healing art now occupied his time. At the first sign of spring, Zakhar could be seen already at work in his orchard, pruning, trimming, cleaning, digging, planting and transplanting. The people of the community were amazed at the man’s knowledge of