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To keep to the road which gleamed white in the mist would have

been safer because it would be easier to see people coming along

it. "Follow me!" said he, crossed the road, and began riding up

the hill at a gallop toward the point where the French pickets

had been standing that evening.

"Your honor, there he is!" cried one of the hussars behind him.

And before Rostov had time to make out what the black thing was

that had suddenly appeared in the fog, there was a flash,

followed by a report, and a bullet whizzing high up in the mist

with a plaintive sound passed out of hearing. Another musket

missed fire but flashed in the pan. Rostov turned his horse and

galloped back. Four more reports followed at intervals, and the

bullets passed somewhere in the fog singing in different tones.

Rostov reined in his horse, whose spirits had risen, like his

own, at the firing, and went back at a footpace. "Well, some

more! Some more!" a merry voice was saying in his soul. But no

more shots came.