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The barn was already far off; fearing a long retreat, Rykov made

for the garden fence, and there checked his fleeing company in

its course. He drew them up, but changed their formation; instead

of a line he made a triangle, with its point to the front and its

base protected by the garden fence. He did well, for the cavalry

descended on him from the castle.

The Count, who had been in the castle under the guard of the

Muscovites, when his terrified guards had dispersed, had mounted

his followers, and hearing shots, was leading his cavalry into

the firing line, himself at their head, with his steel raised

aloft. At once Rykov cried, "Platoon fire!" A fiery thread flew

along over the locks, and from the black levelled barrels three

hundred bullets whistled. Three riders fell wounded, and one lay

dead. The Count's steed fell, and the Count with it; with a cry

the Warden ran to the rescue, for he saw that the yagers had

aimed at the last of the Horeszkos-though in the female line.

Robak was nearer, and covered the Count with his body; he

received the bullets in his stead, drew him from under his horse,

and led him away; but the gentry he bade disperse, take better

aim, spare vain shots, and hide behind the fences, the well, and

the walls of the stable. The Count and his cavalry had to wait a

more fitting season.