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 Others, whispering a prayer, pressed themselves against the wall as if it could protect them, comfort them, and still others, though they fronted their foes, they did so unconsciously, mechanically swinging their pole-axes, the death blows of the Mongols finding them already dead, unfeeling, their souls having long fled. Only a small group of them, altogether five, surrounding Maxim, held on like a crag of rock on the summit of a mountain in a hurricane. This group, standing on a pile of dead had repelled the ceaseless onslaughts of the Mongols, their swords, hunting knives and axes dulled, their clothing soaked, their faces and hands covered with blood.

Confidently and loudly Maxim’s voice rose from time to time, heartening his comrades to continue defending themselves. The awe of the moment filled every man. Each wished to surpass every other in valor. Tuhar Wolf, watching from his height, quivered from excitement and rage, marvelling at the great skill and endurance of the valiant youth who swept down almost singly on the foe, as a storm wind.

“Ye gods, what a heroic youth!” said he to himself. “I’m not at all surprised that he has bewitched my daughter. He could charm even me with his princely character!” And then turning to the remaining Mongols who stood on the rim of the gorge, he shouted, “Forward, jump down on them! Let there be a finish to this massacre. Only that one,” pointing to Maxim, “do not harm!”

All together, like an avalanche, the Mongols jumped down on the still unconquered handful of heroes throwing them to the ground. Once more the maddened yells of the Mongols echoed, once more they rushed on them savagely and fought desperately with the Tukholians but not for long. Each hero was attacked by a whole troop of Mongols and each lost his head. Only Maxim stood like an oaken monarch in the middle of a plain. He cleaved in two the Mongol who had jumped upon him and swung himself towards another when at that