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y turned his horse and galloped back to Grunte to look for Prince Bagration。 Behind him he heard the cannonade becoming louder and more frequent。 Our men were evidently beginning to reply。 Musket shots could be heard below at the spot where the lines were closest。 Lemarrois had only just galloped to Murat with Napoleon’s menacing letter； and Murat； abashed and anxious to efface his error； at once moved his forces to the centre and towards both flanks； hoping before evening and the arrival of the Emperor to destroy the insignificant detachment before him。
“It has begun！ Here it comes！” thought Prince Andrey； feeling the blood rush to his heart。 “But where？ What form is my Toulon to take？” he wondered。
Passing between the companies that had been eating porridge and drinking vodka a quarter of an hour before； he saw everywhere nothing but the same rapid movements of soldiers forming in ranks and getting their guns； and on every face he saw the same eagerness that he felt in his heart。 “It has begun！ Here it comes！ Terrible and delightful！” said the face of every private and officer。 Before he reached the earthworks that were being thrown up； he saw in the evening light of the dull autumn day men on horseback crossing towards him。 The foremost； wearing a cloak and an Astrachan cap； was riding on a white horse。 It was Prince Bagration。 Prince Andrey stopped and waited for him to come up。 Prince Bagration stopped his horse； and recognising Prince Andrey nodded to him。 He still gazed on ahead while Prince Andrey told him what he had been seeing。
The expression： “It has begun！ it is coming！” was discernible even on Prince Bagration’s strong； brown face； with his half…closed； lustreless； sleepy…looking eyes。 Prince Andrey glanced with uneasy curiosity at that impassive face； and he longed to know： Was that man thinking and feeling； and what was he thinking and feeling at that moment？ “Is there anything at all there behind that impassive face？” Prince Andrey wondered； looking at him。 Prince Bagration nodded in token of his assent to Prince Andrey’s words； and said： “Very good；” with an expression that seemed to signify that all that happened； and all that was told him； was exactly what he had foreseen。 Prince Andrey； panting from his rapid ride； spoke quickly。 Prince Bagration uttered his words in his Oriental accent with peculiar deliberation； as though impressing upon him that there was no need of hurry。 He did； however； spur his horse into a gallop in the direction of Tushin’s battery。 Prince Andrey rode after him with his suite。 The party consisted of an officer of the suite； Bagration’s private adjutant； Zherkov； an orderly officer； the staff…officer on duty； riding a beautiful horse of English breed； and a civilian official； the auditor； who had asked to be present from curiosity to see the battle。 The auditor； a plump man with a plump face； looked about him with a na？ve smile of amusement； swaying about on his horse； and cutting a queer figure in his cloak on his saddle among the hussars； Cossacks； and adjutants。
“This gentleman wants to see a battle；” said Zherkov to Bolkonsky； indicating the auditor； “but has begun to feel queer already。”
“Come； leave off；” said the auditor； with a beaming smile at once na？ve and cunning； as though he were flattered at being the object of Zherkov’s jests； and was purposely trying to seem stupider than he was in reality。
“It’s very curious； mon Monsieur Prince；” said the staff…officer on duty。 （He vaguely remembered that the title prince was translated in some peculiar way in French； but could not get it quite right。） By this time they were all riding up to Tushin’s battery； and a ball struck the ground before them。
“What was that falling？” asked the auditor； smiling na？vely。
“A French pancake；” said Zherkov。
“That’s what they hit you with； then？” asked the auditor。 “How awful！” And he seemed to expand all over with enjoyment。 He had hardly uttered the words when again there was a sudden terrible whiz； which ended abruptly in a thud into something soft； and flop—a Cossack； riding a little behind and to the right of the auditor； dropped from his horse to the ground。 Zherkov and the staff…officer bent forward over their saddles and turned their horses away。 The auditor stopped facing the Cossack； and looking with curiosity at him。 The Cossack was dead； the horse was still struggling。
Prince Bagration dropped his eyelids； looked round； and seeing the cause of the delay； turned away indifferently； seeming to ask； “Why notice these trivial details？” With the ease of a first…rate horseman he stopped his horse； bent over a little and disengaged his sabre； which had caught under his cloak。 The sabre was an old…fashioned one； unlike what are worn now。 Prince Andrey remembered the story that Suvorov had given his sabre to Bagration in Italy； and the recollection was particularly pleasant to him at that moment。 They had ridden up to the very battery from which Prince Andrey had surveyed the field of battle。
“Whose company？” Prince Bagration asked of the artilleryman standing at the ammunition boxes。
He asked in words： “Whose company？” but what he was really asking was； “You’re not in a panic here？” And the artilleryman understood that。
“Captain Tushin’s； your excellency；” the red…haired； freckled artilleryman sang out in a cheerful voice； as he ducked forward。
“To be sure； to be sure；” said Bagration； pondering something； and he rode by the platforms up to the end cannon。 Just as he reached it； a shot boomed from the cannon； deafening him and his suite； and in the smoke that suddenly enveloped the cannon the artillerymen could be seen hauling at the cannon； dragging and rolling it back to its former position。 A broad…shouldered； gigantic soldier； gunner number one； with a mop； darted up to the wheel and planted himself； his legs wide apart； while number two； with a shaking hand； put the charge into the cannon’s mouth； a small man with stooping shoulders； the officer Tushin； stumbling against the cannon； dashed forward； not noticing the general； and looked out； shading his eyes with his little hand。
“Another two points higher； and it will be just right；” he shouted in a shrill voice； to which he tried to give a swaggering note utterly out of keeping with his figure。 “Two！” he piped。 “Smash away； Medvyedev！”
Bagration called to the officer； and Tushin went up to the general； putting three fingers to the peak of his cap with a timid and awkward gesture； more like a priest blessing some one than a soldier saluting。 Though Tushin’s guns had been intended to cannonade the valley； he was throwing shells over the village of Sch？ngraben； in part of which immense masses of French soldiers were moving out。
No one had given Tushin instructions at what or with what to fire； and after consulting his sergeant； Zaharchenko； for whom he had a great respect； he had decided that it would be a good thing to set fire to the village。 “Very good！” Bagration said； on the officer’s submitting that he had done so； and he began scrutinising the whole field of battle that lay unfolded before him。 He seemed to be considering something。 The French had advanced