“Jump down, Michael, or you will be killed!” cried Yan.
“By no means. The balls go higher; and from the cannon they are firing in the other direction. I will not jump down for anything.”
And Volodyovski, seizing the grating more firmly, drew himself entirely to the window-sill, where he did not need the shoulder of Pan Yan to hold him. In the cellar it became really dark, for the window was small and Pan Michael though slender filled it completely; but as a recompense the men below had fresh news from the field of battle every minute.
“I see now!” cried Pan Michael. “The Hungarians are resting against the wall and are firing. I was afraid that they would be forced to a corner, then the cannon would destroy them in a moment. Good soldiers, as God is dear to me! Without officers, they know what is needed. There is smoke again! I see nothing—”
The firing began to slacken.
“O merciful God, delay not thy punishment!” cried Zagloba.
“And what, Michael?” asked Yan.
“The Scots are advancing to the attack!”
“Oh, brimstone thunderbolts, that we must sit here!” cried Stanislav.
“They are there already, the halberd-men! The Hungarians meet them with the sabre! Oh, my God! that you cannot look on. What soldiers!”