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"It must be one of ours, a prisoner. Yes. Can it be that they

will take me too? Who are these men?" thought Rostov, scarcely

believing his eyes. "Can they be French?" He looked at the

approaching Frenchmen, and though but a moment before he had been

galloping to get at them and hack them to pieces, their proximity

now seemed so awful that he could not believe his eyes. "Who are

they? Why are they running? Can they be coming at me? And why? To

kill me? Me whom everyone is so fond of?" He remembered his

mother's love for him, and his family's, and his friends', and

the enemy's intention to kill him seemed impossible. "But perhaps

they may do it!" For more than ten seconds he stood not moving

from the spot or realizing the situation. The foremost Frenchman,

the one with the hooked nose, was already so close that the

expression of his face could be seen. And the excited, alien face

of that man, his bayonet hanging down, holding his breath, and

running so lightly, frightened Rostov.