nning? Can they be coming at me?
And why? To kill me? Me whom everyone is so fond of?" He remembered
his mother's love for him, and his family's, and his friends', and the
enemy's intention to kill him seemed impossible. "But perhaps they may
do it!" For more than ten seconds he stood not moving from the spot or
realizing the situation. The foremost Frenchman, the one with the hooked
nose, was already so close that the expression of his face could be
seen. And the excited, alien face of that man, his bayonet hanging down,
holding his breath, and running so lightly, frightened Rostov. He seized
his pistol and, instead of firing it, flung it at the Frenchman and
ran with all his might toward the bushes. He did not now run with the
feeling of doubt and conflict with which he had trodden the Enns bridge,
but with the feeling of a hare fleeing from the hounds. One single
sentiment, that of fear for his young and happy life, possessed his
whole being. Rapidly leaping the furrows, he fled across the field with
the impetuosity he used to show at catchplay, now and then turning his
good-natured, pale, young face to look back. A shudder of terror went
through him: "No, better not look," he thought, but having reached the
bushes he glanced round once more. The French had fallen behind, and
just as he looked round the first man changed his run to a walk and,
turning, shouted something loudly to a comrade farther back. Rostov
paused. "No, there's some mistake," thought he. "They can't have wanted
to kill me." But at the same time, his left arm felt as heavy as if
a seventy-pound weight were tied to it. He could run no more. The
Frenchman also stopped and took aim. Rostov closed his eyes and stooped
down. One bullet and then another whistled past him. He mustered his
last remaining strength, took hold of his left hand with his right, and
reached the bushes. Behind these were some Russian sharpshooters.

CHAPTER XX

The infantry regiments that had been caught unawares in the outskirts
of the wood ran out of it, the different companies getting mixed, and
retreated as a disorderly crowd. One soldier, in his fear, uttered the
senseless cry, "Cut off!" that is so terrible in battle, and that word
infected the whole crowd with a feeling of panic.

"Surrounded! Cut off? We're lost!" shouted the fugitives.

The moment he heard the firing and the cry from behind, the general
realized that something dreadful had happened to his re