of a
province called Vouychegorod. Viatcheslaf, convinced of the
impossibility of resisting such a power as Vsevolod had brought
against Kief, immediately consented to retire, and to surrender the
throne to his more powerful rival. Vsevolod entered the city in
triumph and established himself firmly in power.

There is nothing of interest to be recorded during his reign of seven
years, save that Russia was swept by incessant billows of flame and
blood. The princes of the provinces were ever rising against his
authority. Combinations were formed to dethrone the king, and the king
formed combinations to crush his enemies. The Hungarians, the Swedes,
the Danes, the Poles, all made war against this energetic prince; but
with an iron hand he smote them down. Toil and care soon exhausted
his frame, and he was prostrate on his dying bed. Bequeathing his
throne to his brother Igor, he died, leaving behind him the reputation
of having been one of the most energetic of the kings of this blood
deluged land.

Igor was fully conscious of the perils he thus inherited. He was very
unpopular with the inhabitants of Kief, and loud murmurs greeted his
accession to power. A conspiracy was formed among the most influential
inhabitants of Kief, and a secret embassage was sent to the grand
prince, Ysiaslaf, a descendant of Monomaque, inviting him to come, and
with their aid, take possession of the throne. The prince attended the
summons with alacrity, and marched with a powerful army to Kief. Igor
was vanquished in a sanguinary battle, taken captive, imprisoned in a
convent, and Ysiaslaf became the nominal monarch of Russia.

Sviatoslaf, the brother of Igor, overwhelmed with anguish in view of
his brother's fall and captivity, traversed the expanse of Russia to
enlist the sympathies of the distant princes, to march for the rescue
of the captive. He was quite successful. An allied army was soon
raised, and, under determined leaders, was on the march for Kief. The
king, Ysiaslaf, with his troops, advanced to meet them. In the
meantime Igor, crushed by misfortune, and hopeless of deliverance,
sought solace for his woes in religion. "For a long time," said he, "I
have desired to consecrate my heart to God. Even in the height of
prosperity this was my strongest wish. What can be more proper for me
now that I am at the very gates of the tomb?" For eight days he laid
in his cell, expecting every moment to breathe his last. He then,
reviving a li