"Heh, old man, say what thy purpose is?"
Crossing himself he looked round.

There, Pan[58] Glukhovsky was watching him
On his brave Arab astride,
Rich was the Pan, of high family, 350
Known in the whole countryside.

Many cruel deeds were ascribed to him,
Filled were his subjects with hate,
So the old hermit to caution him
Told him his own sorry fate.

"Ho!" laughed Glukhovsky, derisively,
"Hope of salvation's not mine;
These are the things that I estimate--
Women, gold, honour, and wine.

"My life, old man, is the only one; 360
Many the serfs that I keep;
What though I waste, hang, and torture them--
You should but see how I sleep!"

Lo! to the hermit, by miracle,
Wrath a great strength did impart,
Straight on Glukhovsky he flung himself,
Buried the knife in his heart.

Scarce had the Pan, in his agony,
Sunk to the blood-sodden ground,