And again the rifle in his hand described a fearful semi-circle, again groans responded to his thrusts. The Turcos retreated in terror at the sight of this furious giant, but either Bartek misunderstood, or they shouted out something in Arabic, for it seemed to him that their thick lips distinctly uttered the cry: 'Magda! Magda!'
'Magda will give it you!' howled Bartek, and with one leap he was in the enemy's midst.
Happily at that moment some of his comrades ran up to his assistance. A hand to hand fight now took place in the enclosure of the vineyard. There was the crack of rifles at close quarters, and the hot breath of the combatants sounded through their nostrils. Bartek raged like a storm. Blinded by smoke, streaming with blood, more like a wild beast than a man, and regardless of everything, he mowed down men at each blow, broke rifles, cracked heads. His hands moved with the terrible swiftness of a machine sowing destruction. He attacked the Ensign, and seized him by the throat with an iron grip. The Ensign's eyes turned upwards, his face swelled, his throat rattled, and his hands let the pole fall.
'Hurrah!' cried Bartek, and, lifting the flag, he waved it in the air.
This was the flag raised aloft and drooping, which Steinmetz had seen from below.
But he could only see it for half a second, for in the next—Bartek had trampled it to shreds. Meanwhile his comrades were already rushing on ahead.
Bartek remained alone for a moment. He tore off the flag, hid it in his breast pocket, and, having seized the pole in both hands, rushed after his comrades.
A crowd of Turcos, shouting in a barbarous tongue, now fled towards the gun placed on the summit of the hill, the Macki after them, shouting, pursuing, striking with butt-end and bayonet.
The Zouaves, who were stationed by the guns, received the first men with rifle fire.
'Hurrah!' shouted Bartek.