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"Have some brought from the reserve," said Napoleon, and having

gone on a few steps he stopped before Prince Andrew, who lay on

his back with the flagstaff that had been dropped beside him.

(The flag had already been taken by the French as a trophy.)

"That's a fine death!" said Napoleon as he gazed at Bolkonski.

Prince Andrew understood that this was said of him and that it

was Napoleon who said it. He heard the speaker addressed as Sire.

But he heard the words as he might have heard the buzzing of a

fly. Not only did they not interest him, but he took no notice of

them and at once forgot them. His head was burning, he felt

himself bleeding to death, and he saw above him the remote,

lofty, and everlasting sky. He knew it was Napoleon-his hero-but

at that moment Napoleon seemed to him such a small, insignificant

creature compared with what was passing now between himself and

that lofty infinite sky with the clouds flying over it. At that

moment it meant nothing to him who might be standing over him, or

what was said of him; he was only glad that people were standing

near him and only wished that they would help him and bring him

back to life, which seemed to him so beautiful now that he had

today learned to understand it so differently. He collected all

his strength, to stir and utter a sound.