With Fire and Sword Henryk Sienkiewicz (different e readers .TXT) 📖

“We shall perish!”

“Let us perish. Stop here right by the side of the road⁠—right here!”

Both stood close under the trees in the darkness; presently the mighty thumping of Tartar horses approached and roared like a storm till the whole forest was filled with it.

“It has come!” said Zagloba, raising the skin of wine to his mouth. He drank and drank, then shook himself. “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,” coughed he. “I am ready for death.”

“This minute! this minute!” cried Volodyovski. “Three of them are riding in advance; that is what I wanted.”

In fact three horsemen appeared on the clear road, mounted evidently on the best horses⁠—“wolf-hunters,” so called in the Ukraine, for they came up with wolves in the chase⁠—and two or three hundred yards behind them a few hundred others, and still farther a whole dense throng of the horde.

When the first three came in front of the ambush two shots were discharged; then Volodyovski sprang like a panther into the middle of the road, and before Zagloba had time to think what was done the third Tartar was on the ground.

“Forward!” shouted the little knight.

Zagloba did not let the order be repeated, and they rushed over the road like a pair of wolves hunted by a pack of angry dogs. That moment the other Tartars hastened to the corpses, and seeing that those hunted wolves could bite to death they curbed their horses a little, waiting for their comrades.

“As you see, I knew that I should stop them,” said Volodyovski.

But although the fugitives gained a few hundred steps, the interruption in the chase did not last long. Only the Tartars pressed on in a larger crowd, not pushing forward singly.

The horses of the fugitives were wearied by the long road, and their speed slackened, especially that of Zagloba’s horse, which bearing such a considerable burden stumbled once and twice. What there was left of the old man’s hair stood on end at the thought that he should fall.

“Pan Michael, dearest Pan Michael, do not abandon me!” cried he, in despair.

“Oh, be of good heart!” answered the little knight.

“May the wolves tear this hor⁠—”

He had not finished this sentence when the first arrow hissed near his ear, and after it others began to hiss and whistle and sing as if they were horseflies and bees. One passed so near that its head almost grazed Zagloba’s ear.

Volodyovski turned and again fired twice from his pistol at the pursuers.

Zagloba’s horse stumbled now so heavily that his nostrils were almost buried in the earth.

“By the living God, my horse is dying!” shouted he, in a heartrending voice.

“From the saddle to the woods!” thundered Volodyovski.

Having given this order, he stopped his own horse, sprang off, and a moment later he and Zagloba vanished in the darkness. But this movement did not escape the slanting eyes of the Tartars, and several tens of them springing from their horses also gave chase. The branches tore the cap from Zagloba’s head, beat him on the face and caught his coat, but putting his feet behind his belt he made off as if he were thirty years of age. Sometimes he fell, but he was up again and off quicker than ever, puffing like a bellows. At last he fell into a deep hole, and felt that he could not crawl out again, for his strength had failed him completely.

“Where are you?” called Volodyovski, in a low voice.

“Down here! It’s all over with me⁠—save me, Pan Michael.”

Volodyovski sprang without hesitation to the hole and clapped his hand on Zagloba’s mouth: “Be silent! perhaps they will pass us! We will defend ourselves anyhow.”

By that time the Tartars came up. Some of them did in fact pass the hole, thinking that the fugitives had gone farther; others went slowly, examining the trees and looking around on every side. The knights held the breath in their breasts.

“Let someone fall in here,” thought Zagloba, in despair; “I’ll fall on him.”

Just then sparks scattered on every side; the Tartars began to strike fire. By the flash their wild faces could be seen, with their puffed cheeks and lips sticking out, blowing the lighted tinder. For a time they kept going around a few tens of steps from the hole like ill-omened forest phantoms, drawing nearer and nearer.

But at the last moment wonderful sounds of some sort, murmurs, and confused cries began to come from the highway and to rouse the slumbering depths. The Tartars stopped striking fire, and stood as if rooted to the earth. Volodyovski’s hand was biting into the shoulder of Zagloba.

The cries increased, and suddenly red lights burst forth, and with them was heard a salvo of musketry⁠—once, twice, three times⁠—followed by shouts of “Allah!” the clatter of sabres, the neighing of horses, tramping, and confused uproar. A battle was raging on the road.

“Ours, ours!” shouted Volodyovski.

“Slay! kill! strike! cut! slaughter!” bellowed Zagloba.

A second later a number of Tartars rushed past the hole in the wildest disorder, and vanished in the direction of their party. Volodyovski did not restrain himself; he sprang after them, and pressed on in the thicket and darkness.

Zagloba remained at the bottom of the hole. He tried to crawl up, but could not. All his bones were aching, and he was barely able to stand on his feet.

“Ah, scoundrels!” said he, looking around on every side, “you have fled; it is a pity some one of you did not stay⁠—I should have company in this hole, and I would show him where pepper grows! Oh, pagan trash, they are cutting you up like beasts this minute! Oh, for God’s sake, the uproar is increasing every moment! I wish that Yeremi himself were here; he would warm you. You are shouting, ‘Allah! Allah!’ The wolves will shout ‘Allah!’ over your carrion pretty soon. But that Pan Michael should leave me here alone! Well, nothing wonderful; he is eager, for he is young. After this