erb. Flight or surrender became necessary.
Yaropolk might have found strong friends among some of the powerful
native tribes, but the voice of the traitor was still at his ear, and at
Blude's suggestion he gave himself up to Vladimir. It was like the sheep
yielding himself to the wolf. By the victor's order Yaropolk was slain
in his father's palace.

And now the traitor sought his reward. Vladimir felt that it was to
Blude he owed his empire, and for three days he so loaded him with
honors and dignities that the false-hearted wretch deemed himself the
greatest among the Russians.

But the villain had been playing with edge tools. At the end of the
three days Vladimir called Blude before him.

"I have kept all my promises to you," he said. "I have treated you as my
friend; your honors exceed your highest wishes; I have made you lord
among my lords. But now," he continued, and his voice grew terrible,
"the judge succeeds the benefactor. Traitor and assassin of your
prince, I condemn you to death."

And at his stern command the startled and trembling traitor was struck
dead in his presence.

The tide of affairs had strikingly turned. Vladimir, late a fugitive,
was now lord of all the realm of Russia. His power assured, he showed
himself in a new aspect. Yaropolk's widow, a Greek nun of great beauty,
was forced to become his wife. Not content with two, he continued to
marry until he had no less than six wives, while he filled his palaces
with the daughters of his subjects until they numbered eight hundred in
all.

"Thereby hangs a tale," as Shakespeare says. Rogneda, Vladimir's first
wife, had forgiven him for the murder of her father and brothers, but
could not forgive him for the insult of turning her out of his palace
and putting other women in her place. She determined to be revenged.

One day when he had gone to see her in the lonely abode to which she had
been banished, he fell asleep in her presence. Here was the opportunity
her heart craved. Seizing a dagger, she was on the point of stabbing him
where he lay, when Vladimir awoke and stopped the blow. While the
frightened woman stood trembling before him, he furiously bade her
prepare for death, as she should die by his own hand.

"Put on your wedding dress," he harshly commanded; "seek your handsomest
apartment, and stretch yourself on the sumptuous bed you there possess.
Die you must, but you have been honored as the wife of Vladimir, and
shall not meet a