The ravagers understood that only he would escape with his life who could batter his way through; hence they fell to defending themselves with rage and despair, though without order and each for himself independently. In the very beginning they covered the field thickly, so great was the fury of the shock. The soldiers, pressing them and urging their horses on in spite of the throng, hewed and thrust with that merciless and terrible skill which only a soldier by profession can have. The noise of pounding was heard above that circle of men, like the thumping of flails wielded by a multitude quickly on a threshing-space. The horde were slashed and cut through their heads, shoulders, necks, and through the hands with which they covered their heads; they were beaten on every side unceasingly, without quarter or pity. They too struck, each with what he had, with daggers, with sabres, with slingshots, with horse-skulls. Their horses, pushed to the centre, rose on their haunches, or fell on their backs. Others, biting and whining, kicked at the throng, causing confusion unspeakable. After a short struggle in silence, a howl was torn from the breasts of the robbers; superior numbers were bending them, better weapons, greater skill. They understood that there was no rescue for them; that no man would leave there, not only with plunder, but with life. The soldiers, warming up gradually, pounded them with growing force. Some of the robbers sprang from their saddles, wishing to slip away between the legs of the horses. These were trampled with hoofs, and sometimes the soldiers turned from the fight and pierced the fugitives from above; some fell on the ground, hoping that when the squadrons pushed toward the centre, they, left beyond the circle, might escape by flight.
In fact, the party decreased more and more, for every moment horses and men fell away. Seeing this, Azba Bey collected, as far as he was able, horses and men in a wedge, and threw himself with all his might on Motovidlo’s Cossacks, wishing to break the ring at any cost. But they hurled him back, and then began a terrible slaughter. At that same time Mellehovich, raging like a flame, split the party, and leaving the halves to two other squadrons, sprang himself on the shoulders of those who were fighting with the Cossacks.
It is true that a part of the robbers escaped from the ring to the field through this movement and rushed apart over the plain, like a flock of leaves; but soldiers in the rear ranks who could not find access to the battle, through the narrowness of the combat, rushed after them straightway in twos and threes or singly. Those who were unable to break out went under the sword in spite of their passionate defence and fell near each other, like grain which harvesters are reaping from opposite sides.
Basia moved on with the Cossacks, piping with a thin voice to give herself courage, for at the first moment it grew a little dark in her eyes, both from the speed and the mighty excitement. When she rushed up to the enemy, she saw before her at first only a dark, moving, surging mass. An overpowering desire to close her eyes altogether was bearing her away. She resisted the desire, it is true; still she struck with her sabre somewhat at random. Soon her daring overcame her confusion; she had clear vision at once. In front she saw heads of horses, behind them inflamed and wild faces; one of these gleamed right there before her; Basia gave a sweeping cut, and the face vanished as quickly as if it had been a phantom. That moment the calm voice of her husband came to her ears.
“Good!”
That voice gave her uncommon pleasure; she piped again more thinly, and began to extend disaster, and now with perfect presence of mind. Behold, again some terrible head, with flat nose and projecting cheekbones, is gnashing its teeth before her. Basia gives a blow at that one. Again a hand raises a slingshot. Basia strikes at that. She sees some face in a sheepskin; she thrusts at that. Then she strikes to the right, to the left, straight ahead; and whenever she cuts, a man flies to the ground, tearing the bridle from his horse. Basia wonders that it is so easy; but it is easy because on one side rides, stirrup to her stirrup, the little knight, and on the other Pan Motovidlo. The first looks carefully after her, and quenches a man as he would a candle; then with his keen blade he cuts off an arm together with its weapon; at times he thrusts his sword between Basia and the enemy, and the hostile sabre flies upward as suddenly as would a winged bird.
Pan Motovidlo, a phlegmatic soldier, guarded the other side of the mettlesome lady; and as an industrious gardener, going among trees, trims or breaks off dry branches, so he time after time brings down men to the bloody earth, fighting as coolly and calmly as if his mind were in another place. Both knew when to let Basia go forward alone, and when to anticipate or intercept her. There was watching over her from a distance still a third man—the incomparable archer, who, standing purposely at a distance, put every little while the butt of an arrow on the string, and sent an unerring messenger of death to the densest throng.
But the pressure became so savage that Pan Michael commanded
