g, and even thinking
nothing. The artillery recently so busy and noisy, now seemed to be
petrified. Our souls flew far and rested on the tips of the lances. Now
the Muscovites are close! Already the Muscovite ranks are deploying, in
order to receive them. The gunners climbed on the gun carriages, on the
ammunition carts and stare into space, looking ahead with gaping mouths;
it was so quiet that you could hear the flight of a fly. Each of us felt,
that on this clash hung our fate, the fate of our army, perhaps even our
homeland! It was a moment of expectation and terrible uncertainty, luckily
lasting only a few minutes. Our cavalry clashed with the Muscovites on the
high ground, both lines clashed with each other and mixed.

In the whole of this mass it boiled and the whole mass disappeared, like a
dust cloud driven by the wind.

I don't know who, but someone among us shouted at the top of his
lungs--that shout broke the deathly silence, because he proclaimed victory,
however nobody accompanied him. Because we, young soldiers, still we
weren't understanding, nor guessing the outcome of this battle, but
besides that we feared to yield to premature joy. "Wait!" someone or other
said--"as yet there's nothing certain; nothing to be seen, everyone seems
to have disappeared!"

Finally, the part of the mass that we could see, as it vanished from our
sight, started to come towards us. By their colours we recognised our
lancers and by the war cry: Poland Is Not Yet Lost.(4)

Now there's no doubt, victory is ours! The approaching mass presented a
peculiar spectacle. In it you could see a lot of foot soldiers with
diverse weapons, in addition wagons, ammunition carts, artillery pieces{~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~}
There were Muscovite prisoners, captured with the artillery and the whole
encampment.

I wouldn't be able to describe our joy, this frantic joy! How can it be!
their whole artillery! this mighty artillery in our hands. We rushed
headlong upon these cans, pressing them, caressing them, and I myself for
a moment forgot about my love, the eight-pounder.

Beautiful they were, these Russian cannons, so huge, new, well mounted and
stocked with everything.

"Look, sergeant" the gunner Mateusz called out "look at what red, shining
cannons these cursed Muscovites(5) have!"

I started with a delicate hand to stroke the polished bronze surface, and
everyone repeated in chorus: "Oh, but how these muscovite cans do shine!"
"and wha