“Fighting with their own and not with an enemy.”
“The Hungarians have the upper hand. The Scots are falling back on the left. As I love God! Myeleshko’s dragoons are going over to them! The Scots are between two fires. Korf cannot use his cannon, for he would strike the Scots. I see Ganhoff uniforms among the Hungarians. They are going to attack the gate. They wish to escape. They are advancing like a storm,—breaking everything!”
“How is that? I wish they would capture this castle!” cried Zagloba.
“Never mind! They will come back to-morrow with the squadrons of Mirski and Stankyevich—Oh, Kharlamp is killed! No! He rises; he is wounded—they are already at the gate. What is that? Just as if the Scottish guard at the gate were coming over to the Hungarians, for they are opening the gate,—dust is rising on the outside; I see Kmita! Kmita is rushing through the gate with cavalry!”
“On whose side is he, on whose side?” cried Zagloba.
For a moment Pan Michael gave no answer; but very soon the clatter of weapons, shrieks, and shouts were heard with redoubled force.
“It is all over with them!” cried Pan Michael, with a shrill voice.
“All over with whom, with whom?”
“With the Hungarians. The cavalry has broken them, is trampling them, cutting them to pieces! Their flag is in Kmita’s hand! The end, the end!”
When he had said this, Volodyovski dropped from the window and fell into the arms of Pan Yan.