Bartek again experienced such a feeling of relief from these words that he almost entirely ceased to be afraid. For if one death was as good as another, what did anything matter? This rustic philosophy was calculated to arouse courage more rapidly than any other. Bartek knew that one death was as good as another, but it pleased him to hear it, especially as the battle was now turning into a defeat. For here was a regiment which had never fired a single shot, and was already half annihilated. Crowds of soldiers from other regiments which had been scattered, ran in amongst and round theirs in disorder; only these peasants from Pognębin, Great and Little Krzywda, and Mizerów still remained firm, upholding Prussian discipline. But even amongst them a certain degree of hesitation now began to be felt. Another moment and they would have burst the restraint of discipline. The ground under their feet was already soft and slippery with blood, the stench of which mingled with the smell of gunpowder. In several places the lines could not join up closely, because the dead bodies made gaps in them. At the feet of those men yet standing, the other half lay bleeding, groaning, struggling, dying, or in the silence of death. There was no air to breathe in. They began to grumble: 'They have brought us out to be slaughtered!' 'No one will come out of this!' 'Silence, Polish dogs!' sounded the officer's voice. 'I should just like you to be standing in my shoes!' 'Where is that fellow?' Suddenly a voice began to repeat: 'Beneath Thy Shadow....' Bartek instantly took it up: 'We flee, O holy Son of God!' And soon on that field of carnage a chorus of Polish voices was calling to the Defender of their nation: 'Of Thy favour regard our prayers.'