“Uncle, you an old warrior and can say such things! If they were beaten they would come back to us in small groups.”
“True! I see thy wit will be of service.”
“Do you hear the tramp, Uncle? They are riding slowly. They must have cut the Swedes to pieces.”
“Oi, if they are only ours! Shall I go forward, or not?”
Saying this, Zagloba dropped his sabre at his side, took his pistol in his hand, and moved forward. Soon he saw before him a dark mass moving slowly along the road; at the same time noise of conversation reached him.
In front rode a number of men talking with one another loudly; soon the well-known voice of Pan Michael struck the ear of Zagloba. “They are good men! I don’t know what kind of infantry they have, but the cavalry is perfect.”
Zagloba touched his horse with the spurs. “Ah! how is it, how is it? Oh, impatience was tearing me, I wanted to fly into the fire! But is no one wounded?”
“All are sound, praise to God; but we have lost more than twenty good soldiers.”
“And the Swedes?”
“We laid them down like a pavement.”