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(Won't she be surprised when I tell her how I've seen the

Emperor?) Natasha... take my sabretache..."-"Keep to the right,

your honor, there are bushes here," came the voice of an hussar,

past whom Rostov was riding in the act of falling asleep. Rostov

lifted his head that had sunk almost to his horse's mane and

pulled up beside the hussar. He was succumbing to irresistible,

youthful, childish drowsiness. "But what was I thinking? I

mustn't forget. How shall I speak to the Emperor? No, that's not

it-that's tomorrow. Oh yes! Natasha... sabretache... saber

them... Whom? The hussars... Ah, the hussars with mustaches.

Along the Tverskaya Street rode the hussar with mustaches... I

thought about him too, just opposite Guryev's house... Old

Guryev.... Oh, but Denisov's a fine fellow. But that's all

nonsense. The chief thing is that the Emperor is here. How he

looked at me and wished to say something, but dared not.... No,

it was I who dared not.