But neither did that last long. The piercing sound of a pipe was heard; Tartars and volunteers as one man sprang to their horses.
“After me!” cried Kmita.
And he led them like a whirlwind to Yanov.
A quarter of an hour later the ill-fated place was set on fire at four corners, and in an hour one sea of flame was spread as widely as Yanov extended. Above the conflagration pillars of fiery sparks were flying toward the ruddy sky.
Thus did Kmita let the hetman know that he had taken the rear of Boguslav’s army.
He himself like an executioner, red from the blood of men, marshalled his Tartars amid the fire, so as to lead them on farther.
They were already in line and extending into column, when suddenly, on a field as bright as in day, from the fire, he saw before him a division of the elector’s gigantic cavalry.
A knight led them, distinguishable from afar, for he wore silver-plate armor, and sat on a white horse.
“Boguslav!” bellowed Kmita, with an unearthly voice, and rushed forward with his whole Tartar column.
They approached one another, like two waves driven by two winds. A considerable space divided them; the horses on both sides reached their greatest speed, and went with ears down like hounds, almost sweeping the earth with their bellies. On one side large men with shining breastplates, and sabres held erect in their right hands; on the other, a black swarm of Tartars.