The attack was repulsed on the whole line, when the janissaries, deserting the fosse, ran, like madmen, with a howl of terror. They began in the Turkish intrenchments to hurl flaming tar buckets and torches, and burn artificial fires, making day of night, so as to illuminate the road for the fugitives, and to make pursuit difficult for a sortie.
Meanwhile Pan Michael, seeing that crowd enclosed between the bulwarks, shouted for his dragoons, and went out against them. The unfortunate Turks tried once more to escape through the exit; but Ketling covered them so terribly that he soon blocked the place with a pile of bodies as high as a wall. It remained to the living to perish; for the besieged would not take prisoners, hence they began to defend themselves desperately. Strong men collected in little groups (two, three, five), and supporting one another with their shoulders, armed with darts, battle-axes, daggers, and sabres, cut madly. Fear, terror, certainty of death, despair, was changed in them into one feeling of rage. The fever of battle seized them. Some rushed in fury single-handed on the dragoons. These were borne apart on sabres in a twinkle. That was a struggle of two furies; for the dragoons, from toil, sleeplessness, and hunger, were possessed by the anger of beasts against an enemy that they surpassed in skill in using cold weapons; hence they spread terrible disaster.
Ketling, wishing on his part to make the scene of struggle more visible, gave command to ignite tar buckets, and in the light of them could be seen irrestrainable Mazovians fighting against janissaries with sabres, dragging them by the heads and beards. The savage Lusnia raged specially, like a wild bull. At the other wing Pan Michael himself was fighting; seeing that Basia was looking at him from the walls, he surpassed himself. As when a venomous weasel breaks into grain where a swarm of mice are living, and makes terrible slaughter among them, so did the little knight rush like a spirit of destruction among the janissaries. His name was known to the besiegers already, both from previous encounters and from the narratives of Turks in Hotin. There was a general opinion that no man who met him could save himself from death; hence many a janissary of those enclosed between the bulwarks, seeing Pan Michael suddenly in front, did not even defend himself, but closing his eyes, died under the thrust of the little knight’s rapier, with the word “kismet” on his lips. Finally resistance grew weak; the remnant of the Turks rushed to that wall of bodies which barred the exit, and there they were finished.
The dragoons returned now through the filled fosse with singing, shouting, and panting, with the odor of blood on them; a number of cannon-shots were fired from the Turkish intrenchments and the castle; then silence followed. Thus ended that artillery battle which lasted some days, and was crowned by the storm of the janissaries.
“Praise be to God,” said the little knight, “there will be rest till the morning kindya at least, and in justice it belongs to us.”
But that was an apparent rest only, for when night was still deeper they heard in the silence the sound of hammers beating the cliff.
“That is worse than artillery,” said Ketling, listening.
“Now would be the time to make a sortie,” said the little knight; “but ’tis impossible; the men are too weary. They have not slept and they have not eaten, though they had food, for there was no time to take it. Besides, there are always some thousands on guard with the miners, so that there may be no opposition from our side. There is no help but to blow up the new castle ourselves, and withdraw to the old one.”
“That is not for today,” answered Ketling. “See, the men have fallen like sheaves of grain, and are sleeping a stone sleep. The dragoons have not even wiped their swords.”
“Basia, it is time to go home and sleep,” said the little knight.
“I will, Michael,” answered Basia, obediently; “I will go as you command. But the cloister is closed now; I should prefer to remain and watch over your sleep.”
“It is a wonder to me,” said the little knight, “that after such toil sleep has left me, and I have no wish whatever to rest my head.”
“Because you have roused your blood among the janissaries,” said Zagloba. “It was always so with me; after a battle I could never sleep in any way. But as to Basia, why should she drag herself to a closed gate? Let her remain here till morning.”
Basia pressed Zagloba with delight; and the little knight, seeing how much she wished to stay, said—
“Let us go to the chambers.”
They went in; but the place was full of lime-dust, which the cannonballs had raised by shaking the walls. It was impossible to stay there, so they went out again, and took their places in a niche made when the old gate had been walled in. Pan Michael sat there, leaning against the masonry. Basia nestled up to him, like a child to its mother. The night was in August, warm and fragrant. The moon illuminated the niche with a silver light; the faces of the little knight and Basia were bathed in its rays. Lower down, in the court of the castle, were groups of sleeping soldiers and the bodies of those slain during the cannonade, for there had been no time yet for their burial. The calm light of the moon crept over those bodies, as if that hermit of the sky wished to know who was sleeping from weariness merely, and who had fallen into the eternal slumber. Farther on was outlined the wall of the main castle, from which fell a black shadow on one half of the courtyard.
