It was the morning of the 8th of September, 1380.

Thousands of banners fluttered in the breeze.

The polished armor of the cavaliers, cuirass, spear and helmet, glittered in the rays of the sun.

Seventy-five thousand steeds, gorgeously caparisoned, were neighing and prancing over the verdant savanna.

The soldiers, according to their custom, shouted the prayer, which rose like the roar of many waters, "Great God, grant to our sovereign the victory." The whole sublime scene moved the soul of Dmitry to its profoundest depths; and as he reflected that in a few hours perhaps the greater portion of that multitude might lie dead upon the field, tears gushed from his eyes, and kneeling upon the summit of the mound, in the presence of the whole army, he extended his hands towards heaven in a fervent prayer that God would protect Russia and Christianity from the heel of the infidel.