One of the doctors came out of the tent in a bloodstained apron, holding a cigar between the thumb and little finger of one of his small bloodstained hands, so as not to smear it. He raised his head and looked about him, but above the level of the wounded men. He evidently wanted a little respite. After turning his head from right to left for some time, he sighed and looked down. “All right, immediately,” he replied to a dresser who pointed Prince Andrew out to him, and he told them to carry him into the tent. Murmurs arose among the wounded who were waiting. “It seems that even in the next world only the gentry are to have a chance!” remarked one. Prince Andrew was carried in and laid on a table that had only just been cleared and which a dresser was washing down. Prince Andrew could not make out distinctly what was in that tent. The pitiful groans from all sides and the torturing pain in his thigh, stoma...