He made three turns in the air with his steed, and fell heavily on the rocks.

The sharp stones tore him in pieces; and his brains, mingled with blood, bespattered the shrubs growing on the uneven walls of the precipice.
When Taras Bulba recovered from the blow, and glanced towards the Dniester, the Cossacks were already in the skiffs and rowing away.

Balls were showered upon them from above but did not reach them.

And the old hetman's eyes sparkled with joy.
"Farewell, comrades!" he shouted to them from above; "remember me, and come hither again next spring and make merry in the same fashion! What! cursed Lyakhs, have ye caught me?
Think ye there is anything in the world that a Cossack fears?
Wait; the time will come when ye shall learn what the orthodox Russian faith is! Already the people scent it far and near.

A czar shall arise from Russian soil, and there shall not be a power in the world which shall not submit to him!" But fire had already risen from the fagots; it lapped his feet, and the flame spread to the tree....