selves. "No, the victory is not yet complete!" said Taras, glancing at the city gate; and he was right.
The gate opened, and out dashed a hussar regiment, the pride of all the cavalry troops. Every rider was mounted on a matched bay race-horse from Kabarda; in front of the rest rode the handsomest, the most heroic warrior of them all; his black locks streamed from beneath his brazen helmet; a rich scarf, embroidered by the hands of a peerless beauty, was bound about his arm. Taras sprang back in horror when he saw that it was Andríi. And he, meanwhile, enveloped in the dust and heat of battle, anxious to deserve the scarf which had been bound, as a gift, on his arm, flew on like a young greyhound; the handsomest, swiftest and youngest of all the troop. The experienced huntsman halloos on the greyhound, which leaps forward, its legs cutting a straight line in the air, its body slanted all on one side, tossing up the snow, and a score of times outrunning the hare in the ardour of the course. And Andríi was precisely like this. Old Taras paused and observed how he cleared a path before him, dispersing, hewing and distributing blows to right and left. Taras could not restrain himself from shouting, "What? Your own comrades? Your own comrades! You devil's brat, do you slay
