“Surrender!” cried old Kyemlich, thrusting the point of his sabre between the spokes of the wagon and stabbing at random the men crouched beneath.
“Stop! we surrender!” answered a number of voices.
Then the people from Vansosh threw from under the wagon their sabres and guns; after that the young Kyemliches began to drag them out by the hair, till the old man cried,—
“To the wagons! take what comes under your hands! Quick! quick! to the wagons!”
The young men did not let the command be given thrice, but rushed to untie the coverings, from beneath which the swollen sides of Jendzian’s sacks appeared. They had begun to throw out the sacks, when suddenly Kmita’s voice thundered,—
“Stop!”
And Kmita, supporting his command by his hand, fell to slashing them with the flat of his bloody sabre.
Kosma and Damian sprang quickly aside.
“Cannot we take them, your grace?” asked the old man, submissively.
“Stand back!” cried Kmita. “Find the starosta for me.”