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"If we fought before," he said, "not letting the French pass, as

at Schon Grabern, what shall we not do now when he is at the

front? We will all die for him gladly! Is it not so, gentlemen?

Perhaps I am not saying it right, I have drunk a good deal-but

that is how I feel, and so do you too! To the health of Alexander

the First! Hurrah!"

"Hurrah!" rang the enthusiastic voices of the officers.

And the old cavalry captain, Kirsten, shouted enthusiastically

and no less sincerely than the twenty-year-old Rostov.

When the officers had emptied and smashed their glasses, Kirsten

filled others and, in shirt sleeves and breeches, went glass in

hand to the soldiers' bonfires and with his long gray mustache,

his white chest showing under his open shirt, he stood in a

majestic pose in the light of the campfire, waving his uplifted

arm.

"Lads! here's to our Sovereign, the Emperor, and victory over our

enemies! Hurrah!" he exclaimed in his dashing, old, hussar's

baritone.