peated by all, but this phrase went through the forest like thunder.
And so they came on to death, gladsome and full of rejoicing.
"We shall soon see them," said Matsko.
That instant his face became dark and was wolf-like, in some sort, for the soul in him had grown merciless and unforgiving; besides, he had not paid yet for that wound from a crossbow which he received when journeying to save Zbyshko, bearing with him a letter from Vitold's sister to the Grand Master. Hence his heart sprang up and the desire for vengeance flowed around it as if it had been in boiling water.
"It will not be well for the man who meets him first," thought Hlava, as he cast his eye on the old knight.
Meanwhile the breeze brought up clearly the phrase which all were repeating in their chorus: "Tándaradéi! tándaradéi!" and right away Hlava heard the words of a song known to him:—
"Bi den rôsen er wol mac,
Tándaradéi!
Merken wa mir'z houlet lac."
Now the song stopped, for on both sides of the road was given forth a multitude of croaks as loud and resonant as if a congress of ravens had been opened in that corner of the forest.
The Germans were astonished at this. Whence could so many of those birds have flown in, and why did all their voices come from the ground, and not from the treetops?
The first rank of soldiers just showed itself on the turn and stopped, as if planted, at sight of unknown horsemen out there in front of them.
That instant Zbyshko bent toward his saddle bow, spurred his horse and rushed forward,—
"At them!"
After him shot on the others. From both sides of the forest rose the dreadful cry of Jmud warriors. About two hundred paces divided Zbyshko's men from the Germans, who in one twinkle lowered a forest of spears against the onriders; at the same instant the farther German ranks faced the two sides of the forest with equal swiftness, to defend themselves against two flank attacks. The Polish knights would have admired that accuracy had there been
