she could see
the raised hood of Prince Andrew's caleche. She did not know who was
in it, but each time she looked at the procession her eyes sought that
caleche. She knew it was right in front.

In Kudrino, from the Nikitski, Presnya, and Podnovinsk Streets came
several other trains of vehicles similar to the Rostovs', and as they
passed along the Sadovaya Street the carriages and carts formed two rows
abreast.

As they were going round the Sukharev water tower Natasha, who was
inquisitively and alertly scrutinizing the people driving or walking
past, suddenly cried out in joyful surprise:

"Dear me! Mamma, Sonya, look, it's he!"

"Who? Who?"

"Look! Yes, on my word, it's Bezukhov!" said Natasha, putting her head
out of the carriage and staring at a tall, stout man in a coachman's
long coat, who from his manner of walking and moving was evidently
a gentleman in disguise, and who was passing under the arch of the
Sukharev tower accompanied by a small, sallow-faced, beardless old man
in a frieze coat.

"Yes, it really is Bezukhov in a coachman's coat, with a queer-looking
old boy. Really," said Natasha, "look, look!"

"No, it's not he. How can you talk such nonsense?"

"Mamma," screamed Natasha, "I'll stake my head it's he! I assure you!
Stop, stop!" she cried to the coachman.

But the coachman could not stop, for from the Meshchanski Street came
more carts and carriages, and the Rostovs were being shouted at to move
on and not block the way.

In fact, however, though now much farther off than before, the Rostovs
all saw Pierre--or someone extraordinarily like him--in a coachman's
coat, going down the street with head bent and a serious face beside a
small, beardless old man who looked like a footman. That old man
noticed a face thrust out of the carriage window gazing at them, and
respectfully touching Pierre's elbow said something to him and pointed
to the carriage. Pierre, evidently engrossed in thought, could not at
first understand him. At length when he had understood and looked in the
direction the old man indicated, he recognized Natasha, and following
his first impulse stepped instantly and rapidly toward the coach. But
having taken a dozen steps he seemed to remember something and stopped.

Natasha's face, leaning out of the window, beamed with quizzical
kindliness.

"Peter Kirilovich, come here! We have recognized you! This is
wonderful!" she cried, holding out her hand to him. "What are you do