"May the wolves tear this hor--"
He had not finished this sentence when the first arrow hissed near his ear, and after it others began to hiss and whistle and sing as if they were horseflies and bees. One passed so near that its head almost grazed Zagloba's ear.
Volodyovski turned and again fired twice from his pistol at the pursuers.
Zagloba's horse stumbled now so heavily that his nostrils were almost buried in the earth.
"By the living God, my horse is dying!" shouted he, in a heart-rending voice.
"From the saddle to the woods!" thundered Volodyovski.
Having given this order, he stopped his own horse, sprang off, and a moment later he and Zagloba vanished in the darkness. But this movement did not escape the slanting eyes of the Tartars, and several tens of them springing from their horses also gave chase. The branches tore the cap from Zagloba's head, beat him on the face and caught his coat, but putting his feet behind his belt he made off as if he were thirty years of age. Sometimes he fell, but he was up again and off quicker than ever, puffing like a bellows. At last he fell into a deep hole, and felt that he could not crawl out again, for his strength had failed him completely.
"Where are you?" called Volodyovski, in a low voice.
"Down here! It's all over with me,--save me, Pan Michael."
Volodyovski sprang without hesitation to the hole and clapped his hand on Zagloba's mouth: "Be silent! perhaps they will pass us! We will defend ourselves anyhow."