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He was riding almost along the front line. A handful of men came

galloping toward him. They were our Uhlans who with disordered

ranks were returning from the attack. Rostov got out of their

way, involuntarily noticed that one of them was bleeding, and

galloped on.

"That is no business of mine," he thought. He had not ridden many

hundred yards after that before he saw to his left, across the

whole width of the field, an enormous mass of cavalry in

brilliant white uniforms, mounted on black horses, trotting

straight toward him and across his path. Rostov put his horse to

full gallop to get out of the way of these men, and he would have

got clear had they continued at the same speed, but they kept

increasing their pace, so that some of the horses were already

galloping. Rostov heard the thud of their hoofs and the jingle of

their weapons and saw their horses, their figures, and even their

faces, more and more distinctly. They were our Horse Guards,

advancing to attack the French cavalry that was coming to meet

them.