“The Tartars will cross, but Kmita will perish!” answered the little knight.
“As God lives!” cried the hetman, suddenly; “this Kmita, if he had a head on his shoulders, might win the battle, not perish!”
Volodyovski said nothing; still he thought: “It was necessary either not to send any regiment across the river, or to send five.”
The hetman looked awhile yet through his glass at the distant confusion which Kmita was making beyond the river; but the little knight, not being able to endure any longer, drew near him, and holding his sabre-point upward, said,—
“Your worthiness, if there were an order, I would try the ford again.”
“Stop!” said Gosyevski, rather sharply; “it is enough that those will perish.”
“They are perishing already,” replied Volodyovski.
And in truth the uproar was becoming more definite and greater every moment. Evidently Kmita was retreating to the river.
“As God lives, I wanted that!” cried the hetman, suddenly; and he sprang like a thunderbolt to Voynillovich’s squadron.
In fact, Kmita was retreating. After they had met the red dragoons, his men fought with their last strength; but the breath was already failing in their breasts, their wearied hands were drooping, and bodies were falling faster and faster; only hope that aid might come any moment from beyond the river kept courage in them yet.