The soldiers were bearing the wounded on stretchers, and supporting them by their arms. It was completely dark in the streets; now and then, a rare light flashed in the hospital or from the spot where the officers were seated. The same thunder of cannon and exchange of rifle-shots was borne from the bastions, and the same fires flashed against the dark heavens. Now and then, you could hear the trampling hoofs of an orderly's horse, the groan of a wounded man, the footsteps and voices of the stretcher-bearers, or the conversation of some of the frightened female inhabitants, who had come out on their porches to view the cannonade. Among the latter were our acquaintances Nikita, the old sailor's widow, with whom he had already made his peace, and her ten-year-old daughter. “Lord, Most Holy Mother of God!” whispered the old woman to herself with a sigh, as she watched the bombs, which, like balls of fire, sailed incessantly from one side to the other. “What...
“Well, is she pretty? Ah, friend—my pink one is delicious; her name is Dunyásha....” But on glancing at Rostóv’s face Ilyín stopped short. He saw that his hero and commander was following quite a different train of thought. Rostóv glanced angrily at Ilyín and without replying strode off with rapid steps to the village. “I’ll show them; I’ll give it to them, the brigands!” said he to himself. Alpátych at a gliding trot, only just managing not to run, kept up with him with difficulty. “What decision have you been pleased to come to?” said he. Rostóv stopped and, clenching his fists, suddenly and sternly turned on Alpátych. “Decision? What decision? Old dotard!...” cried he. “What have you been about? Eh? The peasants are rioting, and you can’t manage them? You’re a trait...