The soldiers of Mstislaf fell as the waving grain bows before the tornado.
Their defeat was utter and awful.

Mercy was not thought of.

Sword and javelin cried only for blood, blood.

The wretched Mstislaf in dismay fled, leaving two thirds of his army in gory death; and, in his flight, he met that chastisement which his cruelties merited.

He had to traverse a path two hundred miles in length, along which not one field of grain had been left undestroyed; where every dwelling was in ashes, and no animal life whatever had escaped his ravages.