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One
of
the
wounded
,
an
old
soldier
with
a
bandaged
arm
who
was
following
the
cart
on
foot
,
caught
hold
of
it
with
his
sound
hand
and
turned
to
look
at
Pierre
.
"
I
say
,
fellow
countryman
!
Will
they
set
us
down
here
or
take
us
on
to
Moscow
?
"
he
asked
.
Pierre
was
so
deep
in
thought
that
he
did
not
hear
the
question
.
He
was
looking
now
at
the
cavalry
regiment
that
had
met
the
convoy
of
wounded
,
now
at
the
cart
by
which
he
was
standing
,
in
which
two
wounded
men
were
sitting
and
one
was
lying
.
One
of
those
sitting
up
in
the
cart
had
probably
been
wounded
in
the
cheek
.
His
whole
head
was
wrapped
in
rags
and
one
cheek
was
swollen
to
the
size
of
a
baby
's
head
.
His
nose
and
mouth
were
twisted
to
one
side
.
This
soldier
was
looking
at
the
cathedral
and
crossing
himself
.
Another
,
a
young
lad
,
a
fair-haired
recruit
as
white
as
though
there
was
no
blood
in
his
thin
face
,
looked
at
Pierre
kindly
,
with
a
fixed
smile
.
The
third
lay
prone
so
that
his
face
was
not
visible
.
The
cavalry
singers
were
passing
close
by
:
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Ah
lost
,
quite
lost
...
is
my
head
so
keen
,
Living
in
a
foreign
land
...
they
sang
their
soldiers
'
dance
song
.
As
if
responding
to
them
but
with
a
different
sort
of
merriment
,
the
metallic
sound
of
the
bells
reverberated
high
above
and
the
hot
rays
of
the
sun
bathed
the
top
of
the
opposite
slope
with
yet
another
sort
of
merriment
.
But
beneath
the
slope
,
by
the
cart
with
the
wounded
near
the
panting
little
nag
where
Pierre
stood
,
it
was
damp
,
somber
,
and
sad
.
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The
soldier
with
the
swollen
cheek
looked
angrily
at
the
cavalry
singers
.
"
Oh
,
the
coxcombs
!
"
he
muttered
reproachfully
.
"
It
's
not
the
soldiers
only
,
but
I
've
seen
peasants
today
,
too
...
The
peasants
--
even
they
have
to
go
,
"
said
the
soldier
behind
the
cart
,
addressing
Pierre
with
a
sad
smile
.
"
No
distinctions
made
nowadays
...
They
want
the
whole
nation
to
fall
on
them
--
in
a
word
,
it
's
Moscow
!
They
want
to
make
an
end
of
it
.
"