Alexander the Blessed reproached his men, and said:  “Wait a little, brothers, before you run away.  Let’s exert ourselves a little more.  Dog that he is, he can’t beat us always.  God has set a limit for him somewhere.  To-day is his, to-morrow may be his, but after a while the luck perhaps will turn.”

Then he went to the old hermit-monks in the caves of Kiev and on the island of Valaam, and bowed himself at the feet of all the archimandrites and metropolitans, saying:  “Pray for us, holy fathers, and beseech the Lord God to turn away his wrath; because we haven’t strength enough to defend you from this Napoleonder.”

Then the old hermit-monks and the archimandrites and the metropolitans all prayed, with tears in their eyes, to the Lord God, and prostrated themselves until their knees were all black and blue and there were big bumps on their foreheads.  With tearful eyes, the whole Russian people, too, from the Tsar to the last beggar, prayed God for mercy and help.  And they took the sacred ikon of the Holy Mother of God of Smolensk, the pleader for the grief-stricken, and carried it to the famous field of Borodino, and, bowing down before it, with tearful eyes, they cried:  “O Most Holy Mother of God, thou art our life and our hope!  Have mercy on us, and intercede for us soon.”

And down the dark face of the ikon, from under the setting of pearls in the silver frame, trickled big tears.  And all the army and all God’s people saw the sacred ikon crying.  It was a terrible thing to see, but it was comforting.

Then the Lord God heard the wail of the Russian people and the prayers of the Holy Virgin the Mother of God of Smolensk, and he cried out to the angels and the archangels:  “The hour of my wrath has passed.  The people have suffered enough for their sins and have repented of their wickedness.  Napoleonder has destroyed nations enough.  It’s time for him to learn mercy.  Who of you, my servants, will go down to the earth—­who will undertake the great work of softening the conqueror’s heart?”

The older angels and the archangels didn’t want to go.  “Soften his heart!” they cried.  “He is made of sand—­he hasn’t any navel—­he is pitiless—­we’re afraid of him!”

Then Ivan-angel stepped forward and said:  “I’ll go.”

At that very time Napoleonder had just gained a great victory and was riding over the field of battle on a greyhound of a horse.  He trampled with his horse’s hoofs on the bodies of the dead, without pity or regret, and the only thought in his mind was, “As soon as I have done with Russia, I’ll march against the Chinese and the white Arabs; and then I shall have conquered exactly the whole world.”

But just at that moment he heard some one calling, “Napoleonder!  O Napoleonder!” He looked around, and not far away, under a bush on a little mound, he saw a wounded Russian soldier, who was beckoning to him with his hand.  Napoleonder was surprised.  What could a wounded Russian soldier want of him?  He turned his horse and rode to the spot.  “What do you want?” he asked the soldier.