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Rook
pulled
at
the
reins
and
started
of
his
own
accord
.
Before
him
,
on
the
right
,
Rostóv
saw
the
front
lines
of
his
hussars
and
still
farther
ahead
a
dark
line
which
he
could
not
see
distinctly
but
took
to
be
the
enemy
.
Shots
could
be
heard
,
but
some
way
off
.
"
Faster
!
"
came
the
word
of
command
,
and
Rostóv
felt
Rook
's
flanks
drooping
as
he
broke
into
a
gallop
.
Rostóv
anticipated
his
horse
's
movements
and
became
more
and
more
elated
.
He
had
noticed
a
solitary
tree
ahead
of
him
.
This
tree
had
been
in
the
middle
of
the
line
that
had
seemed
so
terrible
--
and
now
he
had
crossed
that
line
and
not
only
was
there
nothing
terrible
,
but
everything
was
becoming
more
and
more
happy
and
animated
.
"
Oh
,
how
I
will
slash
at
him
!
"
thought
Rostóv
,
gripping
the
hilt
of
his
saber
.
"
Hur-a-a-a-ah
!
"
came
a
roar
of
voices
.
"
Let
anyone
come
my
way
now
,
"
thought
Rostóv
driving
his
spurs
into
Rook
and
letting
him
go
at
a
full
gallop
so
that
he
outstripped
the
others
.
Ahead
,
the
enemy
was
already
visible
.
Suddenly
something
like
a
birch
broom
seemed
to
sweep
over
the
squadron
.
Rostóv
raised
his
saber
,
ready
to
strike
,
but
at
that
instant
the
trooper
Nikítenko
,
who
was
galloping
ahead
,
shot
away
from
him
,
and
Rostóv
felt
as
in
a
dream
that
he
continued
to
be
carried
forward
with
unnatural
speed
but
yet
stayed
on
the
same
spot
.
From
behind
him
Bondarchúk
,
an
hussar
he
knew
,
jolted
against
him
and
looked
angrily
at
him
.
Bondarchúk
's
horse
swerved
and
galloped
past
.
"
How
is
it
I
am
not
moving
?
I
have
fallen
,
I
am
killed
!
"
Rostóv
asked
and
answered
at
the
same
instant
.
He
was
alone
in
the
middle
of
a
field
.
Instead
of
the
moving
horses
and
hussars
'
backs
,
he
saw
nothing
before
him
but
the
motionless
earth
and
the
stubble
around
him
.
There
was
warm
blood
under
his
arm
.
"
No
,
I
am
wounded
and
the
horse
is
killed
.
"
Rook
tried
to
rise
on
his
forelegs
but
fell
back
,
pinning
his
rider
's
leg
.
Blood
was
flowing
from
his
head
;
he
struggled
but
could
not
rise
.
Rostóv
also
tried
to
rise
but
fell
back
,
his
sabretache
having
become
entangled
in
the
saddle
.
Where
our
men
were
,
and
where
the
French
,
he
did
not
know
.
There
was
no
one
near
.
Having
disentangled
his
leg
,
he
rose
.
"
Where
,
on
which
side
,
was
now
the
line
that
had
so
sharply
divided
the
two
armies
?
"
he
asked
himself
and
could
not
answer
.
"
Can
something
bad
have
happened
to
me
?
"
he
wondered
as
he
got
up
:
and
at
that
moment
he
felt
that
something
superfluous
was
hanging
on
his
benumbed
left
arm
.
The
wrist
felt
as
if
it
were
not
his
.
He
examined
his
hand
carefully
,
vainly
trying
to
find
blood
on
it
.
"
Ah
,
here
are
people
coming
,
"
he
thought
joyfully
,
seeing
some
men
running
toward
him
.
"
They
will
help
me
!
"
In
front
came
a
man
wearing
a
strange
shako
and
a
blue
cloak
,
swarthy
,
sunburned
,
and
with
a
hooked
nose
.
Then
came
two
more
,
and
many
more
running
behind
.
One
of
them
said
something
strange
,
not
in
Russian
.
In
among
the
hindmost
of
these
men
wearing
similar
shakos
was
a
Russian
hussar
.
He
was
being
held
by
the
arms
and
his
horse
was
being
led
behind
him
.
"
It
must
be
one
of
ours
,
a
prisoner
.
Yes
.
Can
it
be
that
they
will
take
me
too
?
Who
are
these
men
?
"
thought
Rostóv
,
scarcely
believing
his
eyes
.
"
Can
they
be
French
?
"
He
looked
at
the
approaching
Frenchmen
,
and
though
but
a
moment
before
he
had
been
galloping
to
get
at
them
and
hack
them
to
pieces
,
their
proximity
now
seemed
so
awful
that
he
could
not
believe
his
eyes
.
"
Who
are
they
?
Why
are
they
running
?
Can
they
be
coming
at
me
?
And
why
?
To
kill
me
?
Me
whom
everyone
is
so
fond
of
?
"
He
remembered
his
mother
's
love
for
him
,
and
his
family
's
,
and
his
friends
'
,
and
the
enemy
's
intention
to
kill
him
seemed
impossible
.
"
But
perhaps
they
may
do
it
!
"
For
more
than
ten
seconds
he
stood
not
moving
from
the
spot
or
realizing
the
situation
.
The
foremost
Frenchman
,
the
one
with
the
hooked
nose
,
was
already
so
close
that
the
expression
of
his
face
could
be
seen
.
And
the
excited
,
alien
face
of
that
man
,
his
bayonet
hanging
down
,
holding
his
breath
,
and
running
so
lightly
,
frightened
Rostóv
.
He
seized
his
pistol
and
,
instead
of
firing
it
,
flung
it
at
the
Frenchman
and
ran
with
all
his
might
toward
the
bushes
.
He
did
not
now
run
with
the
feeling
of
doubt
and
conflict
with
which
he
had
trodden
the
Enns
bridge
,
but
with
the
feeling
of
a
hare
fleeing
from
the
hounds
.
One
single
sentiment
,
that
of
fear
for
his
young
and
happy
life
,
possessed
his
whole
being
.
Rapidly
leaping
the
furrows
,
he
fled
across
the
field
with
the
impetuosity
he
used
to
show
at
catchplay
,
now
and
then
turning
his
good-natured
,
pale
,
young
face
to
look
back
.
A
shudder
of
terror
went
through
him
:
"
No
,
better
not
look
,
"
he
thought
,
but
having
reached
the
bushes
he
glanced
round
once
more
