"There's a man I should like to measure strength with!" shouted
Kukubenko, the hetman of the Nezamaikovsky kuren. Spurring his horse,
he dashed straight at the Pole's back, shouting loudly, so that all
who stood near shuddered at the unearthly yell. The boyard tried to
wheel his horse suddenly and face him, but his horse would not obey
him; scared by the terrible cry, it bounded aside, and the Lyakh
received Kukubenko's fire. The ball struck him in the shoulder-blade,
and he rolled from his saddle. Even then he did not surrender and
strove to deal his enemy a blow, but his hand was weak. Kukubenko,
taking his heavy sword in both hands, thrust it through his mouth. The
sword, breaking out two teeth, cut the tongue in twain, pierced the
windpipe, and penetrated deep into the earth, nailing him to the
ground. His noble blood, red as viburnum berries beside the river,
welled forth in a stream staining his yellow, gold-embroidered caftan.
But Kukubenko had already left him, and was forcing his way, with his
Nezamaikovsky kuren, towards another group.

"He has left untouched rich plunder," said Borodaty, hetman of the
Oumansky kuren, leaving his men and going to the place where the
nobleman killed by Kukubenko lay. "I have killed seven nobles with my
own hand, but such spoil I never beheld on any one." Prompted by
greed, Borodaty bent down to strip off the rich armour, and had
already secured the Turkish knife set with precious stones, and taken
from the foe's belt a purse of ducats, and from his breast a silver
case containing a maiden's curl, cherished tenderly as a love-token.
But he heeded not how the red-faced cornet, whom he had already once
hurled from the saddle and given a good blow as a remembrance, flew
upon him from behind. The cornet swung his arm with all his might, and
brought his sword down upon Borodaty's bent neck. Greed led to no