“Listen to us, Oh, God; see what frost burned us on Easter Day! Send, Oh, God, thunder from the clear sky, so that these bitter Turks turn into pieces.”
As they approached the Chapel of St. George, one of the guards began to beat the old men and children who were dradding after them, striking them mercilessly and banging them on the stones.
At the end the slender and beautiful young bride Ruskа, the first beauty in the village was tied. Ruska had slung a swing on her back, in which there was her six-month-old son Vasilcho. The guard was pushing her and lashing with the whip on her head, on her white face that was seen beneath the head-cloth, as he was threatening viciously.
“You, gyaur woman, why have you slung this worm on your back!? Throw it in the ravine!”
“If your mother had thrown you, would you exist now, you, Turk,” said Ruska, and went ahead.
The guard continued to lash her on her head and shoulders with the whip. The little one was sobbing in the cradle, screaming as if he could sense his unfortunate fate, and quietened down frightened.
They walked out onto the Roman road and headed for Stanimaka. The crying, the wailing, the malicious cries did not stop.
Emin Bey and the guard more and more often repeated to Ruska to throw her child. As they approached the Crossroads, where the old Roman road was going straight, the infant started crying loudly into the swing. The Bey shouted out furiously,
“You, bride, are you still carrying that little gyaur on your back? Throw him to trample on him with the horses!...”
Ruska, with tears in her eyes and a choked voice, said to him,
“Wait, Bey Effendi, to tie a swing for him.”
Emin Bey signaled the seymens to stop. The guard untied Ruska. She took the swing from her back and tied it to two young oaks under the road. Then she slowly lowered her head over the baby. She took her bloody breast out of her bosom and fed Vasilcho for the last time. She was so pale, that there was not even a drop of blood left on her face. Only the dropped head-cloth was hiding her grief. Ruska’s tears were dropping on the pale face of the child. She cried silently, stretched out trembling hands toward the swing and her lips whispered softly,
“Goodbye, Vasilcho, stay healthy, son! Lord keep you! You no longer have a mother...”
Then he rolled the swing several times. The guard pulled her back and tied her hands with the rope to the other brides. Ruska’s heart was breaking with grief. She kept turning back to see the swing with her beloved child as she passed the height and lost the sight of it.
The six-month-old baby was left under the shadows of the two leafy oak trees.
He was crying helplessly in the swing until nearly dead of hunger he fell asleep. So he did not see when the pale sickle