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That same night, Rostov was with a platoon on skirmishing duty in

front of Bagration's detachment. His hussars were placed along

the line in couples and he himself rode along the line trying to

master the sleepiness that kept coming over him. An enormous

space, with our army's campfires dimly glowing in the fog, could

be seen behind him; in front of him was misty darkness. Rostov

could see nothing, peer as he would into that foggy distance: now

something gleamed gray, now there was something black, now little

lights seemed to glimmer where the enemy ought to be, now he

fancied it was only something in his own eyes. His eyes kept

closing, and in his fancy appeared-now the Emperor, now Denisov,

and now Moscow memories-and he again hurriedly opened his eyes

and saw close before him the head and ears of the horse he was

riding, and sometimes, when he came within six paces of them, the

black figures of hussars, but in the distance was still the same

misty darkness. "Why not?...