A feast was in progress in the tower—rejoice, people, the princess is getting married! Ivan Tsarevich sat at the table, pale as the moon. The noise and foul weather made it impossible to hear whether the prince had uttered a word, sighed, or even glanced at his bride. The princess had had a bad dream last night, but now there was no time for sleep. They waited a long time for the prince, not a year or two, dark rumors filled the tower. A raven cawed: "The prince is dead!" But finally, the bright falcon himself, the beloved prince, arrived. Ivan's friend, the Gray Wolf, has long since lain on the silver lake by the seven stakes, and no one will approach the Gray Wolf. They bit off the Gray Wolf's tail—the Gray Wolf never brought the water to the prince! - and next to the Wolf, in small jugs, stands untouched, water of life and water of death: will someone come and rescue the poor man? And Ivan Tsarevich is behind strong walls, and no one will approach him. Last night, Ivan Tsarevich was hanged behind strong walls. The shutters in the tower are tightly closed, a barely visible crack. The moon will appear, a ray will penetrate the tower, and its pale light will play on the dead—on the dead prince. The prince and his bride mounted, and they rode off. And the night was dark, the horse black. The prince rode and rode, touching her to see if she was there. The moon peeked out. The moon in the sky—pale, playing on the dead. The dead prince is carrying the living girl.

What, my dear, are you not afraid of me even now? The prince turned around, bared his teeth, dead - white - pale as the moon.