His blood grew hot in a kind of rebellion against chance, or the power that directed the universe.

It was really a grim joke that, after having escaped so much, a mere wandering scout of a Uhlan should pick him up, so to speak, on the point of his lance.
He pressed hard against the earth.

He would have pressed himself into it if he could, and imagination, the deceiver, made him think that he was doing so.

The temptation to raise his head above the grass and look became more violent, but will held him firm and he still lay flat.
Then he noticed that the hoofbeats wandered about in an irregular, aimless fashion.

Not even a scout hunting a good position for observation would ride in such a way, and becoming more daring he raised his head slowly, until he could peep over the grass stems.