ed him out from both sides, and the face of that
young soldier with eyes rolled back.

Denisov lay asleep on his bed with his head under the blanket, though it
was nearly noon.

"Ah, Wostov? How are you, how are you?" he called out, still in the
same voice as in the regiment, but Rostov noticed sadly that under this
habitual ease and animation some new, sinister, hidden feeling showed
itself in the expression of Denisov's face and the intonations of his
voice.

His wound, though a slight one, had not yet healed even now, six weeks
after he had been hit. His face had the same swollen pallor as the faces
of the other hospital patients, but it was not this that struck Rostov.
What struck him was that Denisov did not seem glad to see him, and
smiled at him unnaturally. He did not ask about the regiment, nor about
the general state of affairs, and when Rostov spoke of these matters did
not listen.

Rostov even noticed that Denisov did not like to be reminded of the
regiment, or in general of that other free life which was going on
outside the hospital. He seemed to try to forget that old life and
was only interested in the affair with the commissariat officers. On
Rostov's inquiry as to how the matter stood, he at once produced from
under his pillow a paper he had received from the commission and the
rough draft of his answer to it. He became animated when he began
reading his paper and specially drew Rostov's attention to the stinging
rejoinders he made to his enemies. His hospital companions, who had
gathered round Rostov--a fresh arrival from the world outside--gradually
began to disperse as soon as Denisov began reading his answer. Rostov
noticed by their faces that all those gentlemen had already heard that
story more than once and were tired of it. Only the man who had the next
bed, a stout Uhlan, continued to sit on his bed, gloomily frowning and
smoking a pipe, and little one-armed Tushin still listened, shaking his
head disapprovingly. In the middle of the reading, the Uhlan interrupted
Denisov.

"But what I say is," he said, turning to Rostov, "it would be best
simply to petition the Emperor for pardon. They say great rewards will
now be distributed, and surely a pardon would be granted...."

"Me petition the Empewo'!" exclaimed Denisov, in a voice to which he
tried hard to give the old energy and fire, but which sounded like an
expression of irritable impotence. "What for? If I were a wobber I would
ask me