Others agreed with the little knight. Pan Lantskoronski, as if to show courage, insisted for a time yet on staying in Jvanyets; but he was too experienced a soldier not to see that Volodyovski was right. At last he was interrupted by Pan Vasilkovski, who, coming from the field, rushed in quickly.
“Gracious gentlemen,” said he, “the river is not to be seen; the whole Dneister is covered with rafts.”
“Are they crossing?” inquired all at once.
“They are, as true as life! The Turks are on the rafts, and the chambuls in the ford, the men holding the horses’ tails.”
Pan Lantskoronski hesitated no longer; he gave orders at once to sink the old howitzer, and either to hide the other things, or take them to Kamenyets. Pan Michael sprang to his horse, and went with his men to a distant height to look at the crossing.
Halil Pasha and Murad Pasha were crossing indeed. As far as the eye reached, it saw scows and rafts, pushed forward by oars, with measured movement, in the clear water. Janissaries and spahis were moving together in great numbers; vessels for crossing had been prepared at Hotin a long time. Besides, great masses of troops were standing on the shore at a distance. Pan Michael supposed that they would build a bridge; but the Sultan had not moved his main force yet. Meanwhile Pan Lantskoronski came up with his men, and they marched toward Kamenyets with the little knight. Pan Pototski was waiting in the town for them. His quarters were filled with higher officers; and before his quarters both sexes were assembled, unquiet, careworn, curious.
“The enemy is crossing, and Jvanyets is occupied!” said the little knight.
“The works are finished, and we are waiting,” answered Pan Pototski.
The news went to the crowd, who began to roar like a river.
“To the gates! to the gates!” was heard through the town. “The enemy is in Jvanyets!” Men and women ran to the bastions, expecting to see the enemy; but the soldiers would not let them go to the places appointed for service.
“Go to your houses!” cried they to the crowds; “you will hinder the defence. Soon will your wives see the Turks near at hand.”
Moreover, there was no alarm in the town, for already news had gone around of the victory of that day, and news naturally exaggerated. The soldiers told wonders of the meeting.
“Pan Volodyovski defeated the janissaries, the Sultan’s own guard,” repeated all mouths. “It is not for Pagans to measure strength with Pan Volodyovski. He cut down the pasha himself. The Devil is not so terrible as he is painted! And they did not withstand our troops. Good for you, dog-brothers! Destruction to you and your Sultan!”
The women showed themselves again at the intrenchments and bastions, but laden with flasks of gorailka, wine, and mead. This time they were received willingly; and gladness began among the soldiers. Pan Pototski did not oppose this; wishing to sustain courage in the men and cheerfulness, because there was an inexhaustible abundance of ammunition in the town and the castle, he permitted them to fire salvos, hoping that these sounds of joy would confuse the enemy not a little, should they hear them.
Pan Michael remained at the quarters of the starosta till nightfall, when he mounted his horse and was escaping in secret with his servant to the cloister, wishing to be with his wife as soon as possible. But his attempts came to nothing, for he was recognized, and dense crowds surrounded his horse. Shouts and vivats began. Mothers raised their children to him. “There he is! look at him, remember him!” repeated many voices. They admired him immensely; but people unacquainted with war were astonished at his diminutive stature. It could not find place in the heads of the townspeople that a man so small, and with such a pleasant face, could be the most terrible soldier of the Commonwealth—a soldier whom none could resist. But he rode among the crowds, and smiled from time to time, for he was pleased. When he came to the cloister, he fell into the open arms of Basia.
She knew already of his deeds done that day and all his masterly blows; the chamberlain of Podolia had just left the cloister, and, as an eyewitness, had given her a detailed report. Basia, at the beginning of the narrative, called the women present in the cloister hence—the abbess and the wives of Makovetski, Humyetski, Ketling, Hotsimirski; and as the chamberlain went on, she began to plume herself immensely before them. Pan Michael came just after the women had gone.
When greetings were finished, the wearied knight sat down to supper. Basia sat at his side, placed food on his plate, and poured mead into his goblet. He ate and drank willingly, for he had put almost nothing in his mouth the whole day. In the intervals he related something too; and Basia, listening with gleaming eyes, shook her head, according to custom, asking—
“Ah, ha! Well? and what?”
“There are strong men among them, and very fierce; but it is hard to find a Turk who’s a swordsman,” said the little knight.
“Then I could meet any of them?”
“You might, only you will not, for I will not take you.”
“Even once in my life! You know, Michael, when you go outside the walls, I am not even alarmed; I know that no one can reach you.”
“But can’t they shoot me?”
“Be quiet! Isn’t there a Lord God? You will not let them cut you down—that is the main thing.”
“I will not let one or two slay me.”
“Nor three, Michael, nor four.”
“Nor four thousand,” said Zagloba, mimicking her. “If you knew, Michael, what she did when the chamberlain was telling his story. I thought I should
