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The black, hairy, snub-nosed face of Vaska Denisov, and his whole

short sturdy figure with the sinewy hairy hand and stumpy fingers

in which he held the hilt of his naked saber, looked just as it

usually did, especially toward evening when he had emptied his

second bottle; he was only redder than usual. With his shaggy

head thrown back like birds when they drink, pressing his spurs

mercilessly into the sides of his good horse, Bedouin, and

sitting as though falling backwards in the saddle, he galloped to

the other flank of the squadron and shouted in a hoarse voice to

the men to look to their pistols. He rode up to Kirsten. The

staff captain on his broad-backed, steady mare came at a walk to

meet him. His face with its long mustache was serious as always,

only his eyes were brighter than usual.

"Well, what about it?" said he to Denisov. "It won't come to a

fight. You'll see-we shall retire."