“May he live!” answered fifty voices, and fifty sabres glittered at once.
“To horse, Soroka!” commanded Kmita.
There were some who wished to resist, but at sight of the naked sabres they grew silent. One, however, turned his horse and vanished from the eye in a moment. The torches went out. Darkness embraced all.
“After me!” shouted Kmita. An orderless mass of men moved from the place, and then stretched out in a long line.
When they had gone two or three furlongs they met the infantry pickets who occupied in large parties the birch grove on the left side.
“Who goes?”
“Glovbich with a party!”
“The word?”
“Trumpets!”
“Pass!”