But at that moment the tramp of many horses was heard in an echo from the lofty steppe, and approached more and more swiftly. Numerous voices were crying, “Here! in this cleft! Here!” Mellehovich placed Basia on the moss, and called to those riding up,—
“This way, this way!”
A moment later, Pan Michael was at the bottom of the cleft; after him Pan Zagloba, Mushalski, and a number of other officers.
“Nothing is the matter,” cried the Tartar. “The moss saved her.”
Pan Michael grasped his insensible wife by the hands; others ran for water, which was not near. Zagloba, seizing the temples of the unconscious woman, began to cry,—
“Basia, Basia, dearest! Basia!”
“Nothing is the matter with her,” said Mellehovich, pale as a corpse.
Meanwhile Zagloba clapped his side, took a flask, poured gorailka on his palm, and began to rub her temples. Then he put the flask to her lips; this acted evidently, for before the men returned with water, she had opened her eyes and began to catch for air, coughing meanwhile, for the gorailka had burned the roof of her mouth and her throat. In a few moments she had recovered completely.
Pan Michael, not regarding the presence of officers and soldiers, pressed her to his bosom, and covered her hands with kisses, saying, “Oh, my love, the soul came near leaving me! Has nothing hurt? Does nothing pain you?”
“Nothing is the matter,” said Basia. “Aha! I remember now that it grew dark in my eyes, for my horse slipped. But is the battle over?”