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sabre； making ready to deal a blow； but at that instant the soldier Nikitenko galloped ahead and left his side； and Rostov felt as though he were in a dream being carried forward with supernatural swiftness and yet remaining at the same spot。 An hussar； Bandartchuk； galloped up from behind close upon him and looked angrily at him。 Bandartchuk’s horse started aside； and he galloped by。
“What’s the matter？ I’m not moving？ I’ve fallen； I’m killed …” Rostov asked and answered himself all in one instant。 He was alone in the middle of the field。 Instead of the moving horses and the hussars’ backs； he saw around him the motionless earth and stubblefield。 There was warm blood under him。
“No； I’m wounded； and my horse is killed。” Rook tried to get up on his forelegs； but he sank again； crushing his rider’s leg under his leg。 Blood was flowing from the horse’s head。 The horse struggled； but could not get up。 Rostov tried to get up； and fell down too。 His sabretache had caught in the saddle。 Where were our men； where were the French； he did not know。 All around him there was no one。
Getting his leg free； he stood up。 “Which side； where now was that line that had so sharply divided the two armies？” he asked himself； and could not answer。 “Hasn’t something gone wrong with me？ Do such things happen； and what ought one to do in such cases？” he wondered as he was getting up。 But at that instant he felt as though something superfluous was hanging on his benumbed left arm。 The wrist seemed not to belong to it。 He looked at his hand； carefully searching for blood on it。 “Come； here are some men；” he thought joyfully； seeing some men running towards him。 “They will help me！” In front of these men ran a single figure in a strange shako and a blue coat； with a swarthy sunburnt face and a hooked nose。 Then came two men； and many more were running up behind。 One of them said some strange words； not Russian。 Between some similar figures in similar shakoes behind stood a Russian hussar。 He was being held by the arms； behind him they were holding his horse too。
“It must be one of ours taken prisoner。… Yes。 Surely they couldn’t take me too？ What sort of men are they？” Rostov was still wondering； unable to believe his own eyes。 “Can they be the French？” He gazed at the approaching French； and although only a few seconds before he had been longing to get at these Frenchmen and to cut them down； their being so near seemed to him now so awful that he could not believe his eyes。 “Who are they？ What are they running for？ Can it be to me？ Can they be running to me？ And what for？ To kill me？ Me； whom every one’s so fond of？” He recalled his mother’s love； the love of his family and his friends； and the enemy’s intention of killing him seemed impossible。 “But they may even kill me。” For more than ten seconds he stood； not moving from the spot； nor grasping his position。 The foremost Frenchman with the hook nose was getting so near that he could see the expression of his face。 And the excited； alien countenance of the man； who was running so lightly and breathlessly towards him； with his bayonet lowered； terrified Rostov。 He snatched up his pistol； and instead of firing with it； flung it at the Frenchman and ran to the bushes with all his might。 Not with the feeling of doubt and conflict with which he had moved at the Enns bridge； did he now run； but with the feeling of a hare fleeing from the dogs。 One unmixed feeling of fear for his young； happy life took possession of his whole being。 Leaping rapidly over the hedges with the same impetuosity with which he used to run when he played games； he flew over the field； now and then turning his pale； good…natured； youthful face； and a chill of horror ran down his spine。 “No； better not to look；” he thought； but as he got near to the bushes he looked round once more。 The French had given it up； and just at the moment when he looked round the foremost man was just dropping from a run into a walk； and turning round to shout something loudly to a comrade behind。 Rostov stopped。 “There’s some mistake；” he thought； “it can’t be that they meant to kill me。” And meanwhile his left arm was as heavy as if a hundred pound weight were hanging on it。 He could run no further。 The Frenchman stopped too and took aim。 Rostov frowned and ducked。 One bullet and then another flew hissing by him； he took his left hand in his right； and with a last effort ran as far as the bushes。 In the bushes there were Russian sharpshooters。
Chapter 20
THE INFANTRY； who had been caught unawares in the copse； had run away； and the different companies all confused together had retreated in disorderly crowds。 One soldier in a panic had uttered those words—terrible in war and meaningless： “Cut off！” and those words had infected the whole mass with panic。
“Outflanked！ Cut off！ Lost！” they shouted as they ran。
When their general heard the firing and the shouts in the rear he had grasped at the instant that something awful was happening to his regiment； and the thought that he； an exemplary officer； who had served so many years without ever having been guilty of the slightest shortcoming； might be held responsible by his superiors for negligence or lack of discipline； so affected him that； instantly oblivious of the insubordinate cavalry colonel and his dignity as a general； utterly oblivious even of danger and of the instinct of self…preservation； he clutched at the crupper of his saddle； and spurring his horse； galloped off to the regiment under a perfect hail of bullets that luckily missed him。 He was possessed by the one desire to find out what was wrong； and to help and correct the mistake whatever it might be； if it were a mistake on his part； so that after twenty…two years of exemplary service； without incurring a reprimand for anything； he might avoid being responsible for this blunder。
Galloping successfully between the French forces； he reached the field behind the copse across which our men were running downhill； not heeding the word of command。 That moment had come of moral vacillation which decides the fate of battles。 Would these disorderly crowds of soldiers hear the voice of their commander； or； looking back at him； run on further？ In spite of the despairing yell of the commander； who had once been so awe…inspiring to his soldiers； in spite of his infuriated； purple face； distorted out of all likeness to itself； in spite of his brandished sword； the soldiers still ran and talked together； shooting into the air and not listening to the word of command。 The moral balance which decides the fate of battle was unmistakably falling on the side of panic。
The general was choked with screaming and gunpowder…smoke； and he stood still in despair。 All seemed lost； but at that moment the French； who had been advancing against our men； suddenly； for no apparent reason； ran back； vanished from the edge of the copse； and Russian sharp…shooters appeared in the copse。 This was Timohin’s division； the only one that had retained its good order in the copse； and hiding in ambush in the ditch behind the copse； had suddenly attacked the French。 Timohin had rushed with such a desperate yell upon the French； an