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"It's all the same now. If the Emperor is wounded, am I to try to

save myself?" he thought. He rode on to the region where the

greatest number of men had perished in fleeing from Pratzen. The

French had not yet occupied that region, and the Russians-the

uninjured and slightly wounded-had left it long ago. All about

the field, like heaps of manure on well-kept plowland, lay from

ten to fifteen dead and wounded to each couple of acres. The

wounded crept together in twos and threes and one could hear

their distressing screams and groans, sometimes feigned-or so it

seemed to Rostov. He put his horse to a trot to avoid seeing all

these suffering men, and he felt afraid-afraid not for his life,

but for the courage he needed and which he knew would not stand

the sight of these unfortunates.