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Every ten seconds a cannon ball flew compressing the air around,

or a shell burst in the midst of that dense throng, killing some

and splashing with blood those near them.

Dolokhov-now an officer-wounded in the arm, and on foot, with the

regimental commander on horseback and some ten men of his

company, represented all that was left of that whole regiment.

Impelled by the crowd, they had got wedged in at the approach to

the dam and, jammed in on all sides, had stopped because a horse

in front had fallen under a cannon and the crowd were dragging it

out. A cannon ball killed someone behind them, another fell in

front and splashed Dolokhov with blood. The crowd, pushing

forward desperately, squeezed together, moved a few steps, and

again stopped.

"Move on a hundred yards and we are certainly saved, remain here

another two minutes and it is certain death," thought each one.