"Oh, you can't manage him, children, you can't manage him! I was in Lubni, and I saw that prince with my own eyes. He is awful! When he shouts the trees tremble in the woods, and when he stamps his foot a ravine is made. The king is afraid of him, the hetmans obey him, and all are terrified at him. He has more soldiers than the Khan or the Sultan. Oh, you can't manage him, children, you can't manage him! He is after you, not you after him. And I know what you don't know yet, that all the Poles will come to help him; and where there is a Pole, there is a sabre."
Gloomy silence seized the crowd; the old man struck his lyre again, and raising his face toward the moon, continued:
"The prince is coming, he is coming, and with him as many beautiful plumes and banners as there are stars in heaven or thistles on the steppe. The wind flies before him and groans; and do you know, my children, why the wind groans? It groans over your fate. Mother Death flies before him with a scythe, and strikes; and do you know what she strikes at? She strikes at your necks."
"O Lord, have mercy on us!" said low, terrified voices.
Again nothing was heard but the beating of hammers.
"Who is the prince's agent here?" asked the old man.
"Pan Gdeshinski."
"And where is he?"
"He ran away."
"Why did he run away?"