“May the Lord God give him health!” said Oskyerko.
Then he put his hands around his mouth and began to call, “Gracious Kovalski! your relative is coming to visit you!”
But Pan Roh did not hear, for he was just forming his dragoons. And it is only justice to declare that though he had a handful of men, and on the other side a whole squadron was rolling against him, he was not confused, nor did he lose courage. He placed the dragoons in two ranks in front of the wagon; but the others stretched out and approached in a half-circle, Tartar fashion, from both sides of the field. But evidently they wished to parley, for they began to wave a flag and cry,—
“Stop! stop!”
“Forward!” cried Kovalski.
“Yield!” was cried from the road.
“Fire!” commanded in answer Kovalski.
Dull silence followed,—not a single dragoon fired. Pan Roh was dumb for a moment; then he rushed as if wild on his own dragoons.
“Fire, dog-faiths!” roared he, with a terrible voice; and with one blow of his fist he knocked from his horse the nearest soldier.
Others began to draw back before the rage of the man, but no one obeyed the command. All at once they scattered, like a flock of frightened partridges, in the twinkle of an eye.