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The yagers, letting them come near, poured upon them a hail of bullets; Isajewicz, Wilbik, and Razor fell wounded; then the gentry were checked by Robak on one side and Maciej on the other. The gentry cooled in their ardour, glanced about, and retired; the Muscovites saw this, and Captain Rykov planned to give the final blow, to drive the gentry from the yard and seize the mansion.
She still watches over her royal crown, but in the Duchy of Lithuania the schism77 is now established!” “From Czenstochowa?” said Wilbik. “I confessed myself there when I went on a pilgrimage thirty years ago. Is it true that the French are now visiting the city, and that they are going to tear down the church and seize the treasury—for this is all printed in the Lithuanian Courier?”
“Bah!” interrupted Rymsza; “why, in my youth I saw Kosciuszko, the chief of our nation: he was a great man, but he wore a Cracow peasant’s coat, that is to say, a czamara.” “Much he wore a czamara!” retorted Wilbik. “They used to call it a taratatka.”82 “But the taratatka has fringe,” shouted Mickiewicz, “and the other is entirely plain.”
You are now giving your pennies only for the Muscovite coffers.” “The devil we are!” cried Wilbik; “they take them from us by force.” “O, my dear sir,” a peasant spoke up humbly, bowing to the Monk and scratching his head, “for the gentry it is only half bad, but they skin us like linden bark.”
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