here, my lord, if Suomar will let me keep the little
patch of ground I have always tilled--I had to give him only the
twelfth sheaf from it--and the hut of woven willow branches by the
lake. I would rather stay."

"Strange! Do you feel no longing for your home, your own people?"

"Home! We Sarmatians have none like yours, you patient, plough-guiding
men, which you occupy beside the immovable hearthstone, rooted to the
earth. Our home is the steppe, the broad, free steppe, which can be
measured neither by the eye nor the steed. Ah! it is beautiful." The
man's eyes sparkled, and suddenly Zercho, usually so dull and taciturn,
was overwhelmed by an enthusiasm which, to the listeners' astonishment,
gave his words wings. "Yes, it is more beautiful, more magnificent than
all the Roman and German lands I have ever seen. When, in the spring,
the sun has kissed away the last snow; when the moor laughs; when the
steppe blossoms; when by day hundreds of hawks scream at once in the
blue air, and the wild stallions, which have never borne a rider, neigh
so terribly and dash so furiously past the tents, trampling over
everything in their path as they pursue the trembling mares, till the
heart of the boldest man might quiver with fear and yet also with joy
at sight of such fierce, uncurbed strength! And oh, the nights, when
the thousands and thousands of heavenly spirits look down from above,
far, far more star-gods, shining far more brightly than here with
you; and when, in the darkness, the cranes and wild-swans pass like
thick clouds--for there are so many that they cast shadows in the
moonlight--like resonant, clanging clouds high in the air!

"Doubtless the steppes of Sarmatia are more beautiful than any other
lands and the lives of the Jazyges on their swift steeds are freer than
other lives. But Zercho--Zercho no longer suits the steppe. I am like
the bird, the wild bird of the moor, which boys keep for years in a
small cage where it cannot spread its wings. If it is set free, nay,
flung into the air, it drops down and lies still; it can no longer fly,
it has forgotten how. So, toiling with the plough for many years and
staying in one place has fettered me. Zercho can no longer ride as the
Jazyges ride, vying with the wind; Zercho can no longer sleep every
night on a different patch of earth and, if there be nothing better to
eat, catch locusts and lizards. I am used to grain and bread, the fruit
of the lands I have ploughed m