Sobieski, almost maddened by the scene, dripping with his own blood
and that of his brave friends, was seen in every part of the action;
he was in the fosse, defending the trampled bodies of the dying; he
was on the dyke, animating the few who survived. Wawrzecki was
wounded, and every hope hung upon Thaddeus. His presence and voice
infused new energy into the arms of his fainting countrymen; they
kept close to his side, until the victors, enraged at the dauntless
intrepidity of this young hero, uttered the most fearful
imprecations, and rushing on his little phalanx, attacked it with
redoubled numbers and fury.
Sobieski sustained the shock with firmness; but wherever he turned
his eyes, they were blasted with some object which made them recoil;
he beheld his companions and his soldiers strewing the earth, and
their triumphant adversaries mounting their dying bodies, as they
hastened with loud huzzas to the destruction of Praga, whose gates
were now burst open. His eyes grew dim at the sight, and at the very
moment in which he tore them from spectacles so deadly to his heart,
a Livonian officer struck him with a sabre, to all appearance dead
upon the field.
When he recovered from the blow, (which, having lit on the steel of
his cap, had only stunned him,) he looked around, and found that all
near him was quiet; but a far different scene presented itself from
the town.
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