BOOK TWO: 1805
8. CHAPTER VIII
(continued)
On the high ground where the enemy was, the smoke of a cannon
rose, and a ball flew whistling over the heads of the hussar squadron.
The officers who had been standing together rode off to their
places. The hussars began carefully aligning their horses. Silence
fell on the whole squadron. All were looking at the enemy in front and
at the squadron commander, awaiting the word of command. A second
and a third cannon ball flew past. Evidently they were firing at the
hussars, but the balls with rapid rhythmic whistle flew over the heads
of the horsemen and fell somewhere beyond them. The hussars did not
look round, but at the sound of each shot, as at the word of
command, the whole squadron with its rows of faces so alike yet so
different, holding its breath while the ball flew past, rose in the
stirrups and sank back again. The soldiers without turning their heads
glanced at one another, curious to see their comrades' impression.
Every face, from Denisov's to that of the bugler, showed one common
expression of conflict, irritation, and excitement, around chin and
mouth. The quartermaster frowned, looking at the soldiers as if
threatening to punish them. Cadet Mironov ducked every time a ball
flew past. Rostov on the left flank, mounted on his Rook- a handsome
horse despite its game leg- had the happy air of a schoolboy called up
before a large audience for an examination in which he feels sure he
will distinguish himself. He was glancing at everyone with a clear,
bright expression, as if asking them to notice how calmly he sat under
fire. But despite himself, on his face too that same indication of
something new and stern showed round the mouth.
"Who's that curtseying there? Cadet Miwonov! That's not wight!
Look at me," cried Denisov who, unable to keep still on one spot, kept
turning his horse in front of the squadron.
The black, hairy, snub-nosed face of Vaska Denisov, and his whole
short sturdy figure with the sinewy hairy hand and stumpy fingers in
which he held the hilt of his naked saber, looked just as it usually
did, especially toward evening when he had emptied his second
bottle; he was only redder than usual. With his shaggy head thrown
back like birds when they drink, pressing his spurs mercilessly into
the sides of his good horse, Bedouin, and sitting as though falling
backwards in the saddle, he galloped to the other flank of the
squadron and shouted in a hoarse voice to the men to look to their
pistols. He rode up to Kirsten. The staff captain on his broad-backed,
steady mare came at a walk to meet him. His face with its long
mustache was serious as always, only his eyes were brighter than
usual.
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