Next morning, at daybreak, the little knight went to Knyahin and
captured Buluk Pasha,--a notable warrior among the Turks. The whole
day passed for him in labor on the field, a part of the night
in counsel with Pan Pototski, and only at first cockcrow did he
lay down his wearied head to sleep a little. But he was barely
slumbering sweetly and deeply when the thunder of cannon roused
him. The man Pyentka, from Jmud, a faithful servant of Pan Michael,
almost a friend, came into the room.
“Your grace,” said he, “the enemy is before the town.”
“What guns are those?” asked the little knight.
“Our guns, frightening the Pagans. There is a considerable party
driving off cattle from the field.”
“Janissaries or cavalry?”
“Cavalry. Very black. Our side is frightening them with the Holy
Cross; for who knows but they are devils?”
“Devils or no devils, we must be at them,” said the little knight.
“Go to the lady, and tell her that I am in the field. If she wishes
to come to the castle to look out, she may, if she comes with Pan
Zagloba, for I count most on his discretion.”
Half an hour later Pan Michael rushed into the field at the head
of dragoons and volunteer nobles, who calculated that it would
be possible to exhibit themselves in skirmishing. From the old
castle the cavalry were to be seen perfectly, in number about
two thousand, composed in part of spahis, but mainly of the
Egyptian guard of the Sultan. In this last served wealthy and
generous mamelukes from the Nile. Their mail in gleaming scales,
their bright kefis, woven with gold, on their heads, their white
burnooses and their weapons set with diamonds, made them the most
brilliant cavalry in the world. They were armed with darts, set on
jointed staffs, and with swords and knives greatly curved. Sitting
on horses as swift as the wind, they swept over the field like a
rainbow-colored cloud, shouting, whirling, and winding between
their fingers the deadly darts. The Poles in the castle could not
look at them long enough.
Pan Michael pushed toward them with his cavalry. It was difficult,
however, for both sides to meet with cold weapons, since the cannon
of the castle restrained the Turks, and they were too numerous for
the little knight to go to them, and have a trial beyond the reach
of Polish cannon. For a time, however, both sides circled around
at a distance, shaking their weapons and shouting loudly. But at
last this empty threatening became clearly disagreeable to the
fiery sons of the desert, for all at once single horsemen began
to separate from the mass and advance, calling loudly on their
opponents. Soon they scattered over the field, and glittered on
it like flowers which the wind drives in various directions. Pan
Michael looked at his own men.
“Gracious gentlemen,” said he, “they are inviting us. Who will go
to the skirmish?”
The fiery cavalier, Pan Vasilkovski, sprang out first; after him
Pan Mushalski, the infallible bowman, but also in hand-to-hand
conflict an excellent skirmisher; after these went Pan Myazga of
the escutcheon Prus, who during the full speed of his horse could
carry off a finger-ring on his lance; after Pan Myazga galloped Pan
Teodor Paderevski, Pan Ozevich, Pan Shmlud-Plotski, Prince Ovsyani,
and Pan Murkos-Sheluta, with a number of good cavaliers; and of
the dragoons there went also a group, for the hope of rich plunder
incited them, but more than all the peerless horses of the Arabs.
At the head of the dragoons went the stern Lusnia; and gnawing his
yellow mustache, he was choosing at a distance the wealthiest enemy.
The day was beautiful. They were perfectly visible; the cannon on
the walls became silent one after another, till at last all firing
had ceased, for the gunners were fearful of injuring some of their
own men; they preferred also to look at the battle rather than fire
at scattered skirmishers. The two sides rode toward each other
at a walk, without hastening, then at a trot, not in a line, but
irregularly, as suited each man. At length, when they had ridden
near to each other, they reined in their horses, and fell to
abusing each other, so as to rouse anger and daring.
“You’ll not grow fat with us, Pagan dogs!” cried the Poles. “Your
vile Prophet will not protect you!”
The others cried in Turkish and Arabic. Many Poles knew both
languages, for, like the celebrated bowman, many had gone through
grievous captivity; therefore when Pagans blasphemed the Most Holy
Lady with special insolence, anger raised the hair on the servants
of Mary, and they urged on their horses, wishing to take revenge
for the insult to her name.
Who struck the first blow and deprived a man of dear life?
Pan Mushalski pierced first with an arrow a young bey, with a
purple kefi on his head, and dressed in a silver scaled armor,
clear as moonlight. The painful shaft went under his left eye, and
entered his head half the length of its shaft; he, throwing back
his beautiful face and spreading his arms, flew from the saddle.
The archer, putting his bow under his thigh, sprang forward and cut
him yet with the sabre; then taking the bey’s excellent weapons,
and driving his horse with the flat of his sword toward the castle,
he called loudly in Arabic,--
“I would that he were the Sultan’s own son. He would rot here
before you would play the last kindya.”
When the Turks and Egyptians heard this they were terribly grieved,
and two beys sprang at once toward Mushalski; but from one side
Lusnia, who was wolf-like in fierceness, intercepted their way, and
in the twinkle of an eye bit to death one of them. First he cut
him in the hand; and when the bey stooped for his sabre, which had
fallen, Lusnia almost severed his head with a terrible blow on the
neck. Seeing which, the other turned his horse swift as wind to
escape, but that moment Pan Mushalski took the bow again from under
his thigh, and sent after the fugitive an arrow; it reached him in
his flight, and sank almost to the feathers between his shoulders.
Pan Shmlud-Plotski was the third to finish his enemy, striking
him with a sharp hammer on the helmet. He drove in with the blow
the silver and velvet lining of the steel; and the bent point of
the hammer stuck so tightly in the skull that Pan Plotski could
not draw it forth for a time. Others fought with varied fortune;
still, victory was mainly with the nobles, who were more skilled in
fencing. But two dragoons fell from the powerful hand of Hamdi Bey,
who slashed then Prince Ovsyani with a curved sword through the
face, and stretched him on the field. Ovsyani moistened his native
earth with his princely blood. Hamdi turned then to Pan Sheluta,
whose horse had thrust his foot into the burrow of a hamster.
Sheluta, seeing death inevitable, chose to meet the terrible
horseman on foot, and sprang to the ground. But Hamdi, with the
breast of his horse, overturned the Pole, and reached the arm of
the falling man with the very end of his blade. The arm dropped;
that instant Hamdi rushed farther through the field in search of
opponents.
But in many there was not courage to measure with him, so greatly
and evidently did he surpass all in strength. The wind raised his
white burnoose on his shoulders, and bore it apart like the wings
of a bird of prey; his gilt worked armor threw an ominous gleam on
his almost black face, with its wild and flashing eyes; a curved
sabre glittered above his head, like the sickle of the moon on a
clear night.
The famed archer let out two arrows at him; but both merely sounded
on his armor with a groaning, and fell without effect on the grass.
Pan Mushalski began to hesitate whether to send forth a third shaft
against the neck of the steed, or rush on the bey with his sabre.
But while he was thinking of this on the way, the bey saw him and
urged on his black stallion.
Both met in the middle of the field. Pan Mushalski, wishing to show
his great strength and take Hamdi alive, struck up his sword with
a powerful blow and closed with him; he seized the bey’s throat
with one hand, with the other his pointed helmet, and drew him from
his horse. But the girth of his own saddle broke; the incomparable
bowman turned with it, and dropped to the ground. Hamdi struck the
falling man with the hilt of his sword on the head and stunned him.
The spahis and mamelukes, who had feared for Hamdi, shouted with
joy; the Poles were grieved greatly. Then the opposing sides sprang
toward one another in dense groups,--one side to seize the bowman,
the other to defend even his body.
So far the little knight had taken no part in the skirmish, for
his dignity of colonel did not permit that; but seeing the fall of
Mushalski and the preponderance of Hamdi, he resolved to avenge the
archer and give courage to his own men. Inspired with this thought,
he put spurs to his horse, and swept across the field as swiftly as
a sparrow-hawk goes to a flock of plover, circling over stubble.
Basia, looking through a glass, saw him from the battlements, and
cried at once to Zagloba, who was near her,--
“Michael is flying! Michael is flying!”
“You see him,” cried the old warrior. “Look carefully; see where he
strikes the first blow. Have no fear!”
The glass shook in Basia’s hand. Though, as there was no discharge
in the field yet from bows or janissary guns, she was not alarmed
over-much for the life of her husband, still, enthusiasm,
curiosity, and disquiet seized her. Her soul and heart had gone out
of her body that moment, and were flying after him. Her breast was
heaving quickly; a bright flush covered her face. At one moment she
had bent over the battlement so far that Zagloba seized her by the
waist, lest she might fall to the fosse.
“Two are flying at Michael!” cried she.
“There will be two less!” said Zagloba.
Indeed, two spahis came out against the little knight. Judging from
his uniform, they knew that he was a man of note, and seeing the
small stature of the horseman they thought to win glory cheaply.
The fools! they flew to sure death; for when they had drawn near he
did not even rein in his horse, but gave them two blows, apparently
as light as when a mother in passing gives a push apiece to two
children. Both fell on the ground, and clawing it with their
fingers, quivered like two lynxes which death-dealing arrows have
struck simultaneously.
The little knight flew farther toward horsemen racing through
the field, and began to spread dreadful disaster. As when after
Mass a boy comes in with a pewter extinguisher fixed to a staff,
and quenches one after another the candles on the altar, and the
altar is buried in shadow, so Pan Michael quenched right and left
brilliant horsemen, Egyptian and Turkish, and they sank in the
darkness of death. The Pagans recognized a master above masters,
and their hearts sank within them. One and another withdrew his
horse, so as not to meet with the terrible leader; the little
knight rushed after the fugitives like a venomous wasp, and pierced
one after another with his sting.
The men at the castle artillery began to shout joyously at sight of
this. Some ran up to Basia, and borne away with enthusiasm, kissed
the hem of her robe; others abused the Turks.
“Basia, restrain yourself!” cried Zagloba, every little while,
holding her continually by the waist; but Basia wanted to laugh and
cry, and clap her hands, and shout and look, and fly to her husband
in the field.
He continued to carry off spahis and Egyptian beys till at last
cries of “Hamdi! Hamdi!” were heard throughout the whole field. The
adherents of the Prophet called loudly for their greatest warrior
to measure himself with that terrible little horseman, who seemed
to be death incarnate.
Hamdi had seen the little knight for some time; but noting his
deeds, he was simply afraid of him. It was a terror to risk at
once his great fame and young life against such an ominous enemy;
therefore he feigned not to see him, and began to circle around at
the other end of the field. He had just finished Pan Yalbryk and
Pan Kos when despairing cries of “Hamdi! Hamdi!” smote his ear. He
saw then that he could hide himself no longer, that he must win
immeasurable glory or lay down his life; at that moment he gave
forth a shout so shrill that all the rocks answered with an echo,
and he urged on toward the little knight a horse as swift as a
whirlwind.
Pan Michael saw him from a distance, and pressed also with his
heels his Wallachian bay. Others ceased the armed argument. At
the castle Basia, who had seen just before all the deeds of the
terrible Hamdi, grew somewhat pale, in spite of her blind faith in
the little knight, the unconquerable swordsman; but Zagloba was
thoroughly at rest.
“I would rather be the heir of that Pagan than that Pagan himself,”
said he to Basia, sententiously.
Pyentka, the slow Lithuanian, was so certain of his lord that not
the least anxiety darkened his face; but seeing Hamdi rushing on,
he began to hum a popular song,--
“O thou foolish, foolish house-dog,
That’s a gray wolf from the forest.
Why dost thou rush forward to him
If thou canst not overcome him!”
The men closed in the middle of the field between two ranks,
looking on from a distance. The hearts of all died in them for a
moment. Then serpentine lightning flashed in the bright sun above
the heads of the combatants; but the curved blade flew from the
hand of Hamdi like an arrow urged by a bowstring; he bent toward
the saddle, as if pierced with a blade-point, and closed his eyes.
Pan Michael seized him by the neck with his left hand, and placing
the point of his sabre at the armpit of the Egyptian, turned toward
his own men. Hamdi gave no resistance; he even urged his horse
forward with his heel, for he felt the point between his armpit
and the armor. He went as if stunned, his hands hanging powerless,
and from his eyes tears began to fall. Pan Michael gave him to the
cruel Lusnia, and returned himself to the field.
But in the Turkish companies trumpets and pipes were sounded,--a
signal of retreat to the skirmishers. They began to withdraw toward
their own forces, taking with them shame, vexation, and the memory
of the terrible horseman.
“That was Satan!” said the spahis and mamelukes to one another.
“Whoso meets that man, to him death is predestined! Satan, no
other!”
The Polish skirmishers remained awhile to show that they held the
field; then, giving forth three shouts of victory, they withdrew
under cover of their guns, from which Pan Pototski gave command to
renew fire. But the Turks began to retreat altogether. For a time
yet their burnooses gleamed in the sun, and their colored kefis and
glittering head-pieces; then the blue sky hid them.
On the field of battle there remained only the Turks and Poles
slain with swords. Servants came out from the castle to collect
and bury the Poles. Then ravens came to labor at the burial of the
Pagans, but their stay was not long, for that evening new legions
of the Prophet frightened them away.