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"Who are they? Why are they here? What do they want? And when

will all this end?" thought Rostov, looking at the changing

shadows before him. The pain in his arm became more and more

intense. Irresistible drowsiness overpowered him, red rings

danced before his eyes, and the impression of those voices and

faces and a sense of loneliness merged with the physical pain. It

was they, these soldiers-wounded and unwounded-it was they who

were crushing, weighing down, and twisting the sinews and

scorching the flesh of his sprained arm and shoulder. To rid

himself of them he closed his eyes.