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In
the
long
room
,
brightly
lit
up
by
the
sun
through
the
large
windows
,
the
sick
and
wounded
lay
in
two
rows
with
their
heads
to
the
walls
,
and
leaving
a
passage
in
the
middle
.
Most
of
them
were
unconscious
and
paid
no
attention
to
the
newcomers
.
Those
who
were
conscious
raised
themselves
or
lifted
their
thin
yellow
faces
,
and
all
looked
intently
at
Rostóv
with
the
same
expression
of
hope
,
of
relief
,
reproach
,
and
envy
of
another
's
health
.
Rostóv
went
to
the
middle
of
the
room
and
looking
through
the
open
doors
into
the
two
adjoining
rooms
saw
the
same
thing
there
.
He
stood
still
,
looking
silently
around
.
He
had
not
at
all
expected
such
a
sight
.
Just
before
him
,
almost
across
the
middle
of
the
passage
on
the
bare
floor
,
lay
a
sick
man
,
probably
a
Cossack
to
judge
by
the
cut
of
his
hair
.
The
man
lay
on
his
back
,
his
huge
arms
and
legs
outstretched
.
His
face
was
purple
,
his
eyes
were
rolled
back
so
that
only
the
whites
were
seen
,
and
on
his
bare
legs
and
arms
which
were
still
red
,
the
veins
stood
out
like
cords
.
He
was
knocking
the
back
of
his
head
against
the
floor
,
hoarsely
uttering
some
word
which
he
kept
repeating
.
Rostóv
listened
and
made
out
the
word
.
It
was
"
drink
,
drink
,
a
drink
!
"
Rostóv
glanced
round
,
looking
for
someone
who
would
put
this
man
back
in
his
place
and
bring
him
water
.
"
Who
looks
after
the
sick
here
?
"
he
asked
the
assistant
.
Just
then
a
commissariat
soldier
,
a
hospital
orderly
,
came
in
from
the
next
room
,
marching
stiffly
,
and
drew
up
in
front
of
Rostóv
.
"
Good
day
,
your
honor
!
"
he
shouted
,
rolling
his
eyes
at
Rostóv
and
evidently
mistaking
him
for
one
of
the
hospital
authorities
.
"
Get
him
to
his
place
and
give
him
some
water
,
"
said
Rostóv
,
pointing
to
the
Cossack
.
"
Yes
,
your
honor
,
"
the
soldier
replied
complacently
,
and
rolling
his
eyes
more
than
ever
he
drew
himself
up
still
straighter
,
but
did
not
move
.
"
No
,
it
's
impossible
to
do
anything
here
,
"
thought
Rostóv
,
lowering
his
eyes
,
and
he
was
going
out
,
but
became
aware
of
an
intense
look
fixed
on
him
on
his
right
,
and
he
turned
Close
to
the
corner
,
on
an
overcoat
,
sat
an
old
,
unshaven
,
gray-bearded
soldier
as
thin
as
a
skeleton
,
with
a
stern
sallow
face
and
eyes
intently
fixed
on
Rostóv
.
The
man
's
neighbor
on
one
side
whispered
something
to
him
,
pointing
at
Rostóv
,
who
noticed
that
the
old
man
wanted
to
speak
to
him
.
He
drew
nearer
and
saw
that
the
old
man
had
only
one
leg
bent
under
him
,
the
other
had
been
amputated
above
the
knee
.
His
neighbor
on
the
other
side
,
who
lay
motionless
some
distance
from
him
with
his
head
thrown
back
,
was
a
young
soldier
with
a
snub
nose
.
His
pale
waxen
face
was
still
freckled
and
his
eyes
were
rolled
back
.
Rostóv
looked
at
the
young
soldier
and
a
cold
chill
ran
down
his
back
.
"
Why
,
this
one
seems
...
"
he
began
,
turning
to
the
assistant
.
