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The birds hid in the woods, in the thatched roofs, in the depths

of the grass; the ravens, surrounding the ponds in flocks, walked

to and fro with measured steps; they turned their black eyes on

the black clouds, and, protruding their tongues from their broad,

dry throats and spreading out their wings, they awaited their

bath. Yet even they, foreseeing too fierce a storm, already were

making for the wood, like a rising cloud. The last of the birds,

the swallow, made bold by its fleetness of wing, pierced the

cloud like an arrow, and finally dropped from it like a bullet.

Just at that moment the gentry had finished their terrible combat

with the Muscovites, and one and all were seeking shelter in the

houses and stables, deserting the battlefield, where soon the

elements joined in combat.