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作者: Leo Tolstoy

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left..." A fat major skirted a bush, puffing and falling out of
step; a soldier who had fallen behind, his face showing alarm at
his defection, ran at a trot, panting to catch up with his
company. A cannon ball, cleaving the air, flew over the heads of
Bagration and his suite, and fell into the column to the measure
of "Left... left!" "Close up!" came the company commander's voice
in jaunty tones. The soldiers passed in a semicircle round
something where the ball had fallen, and an old trooper on the
flank, a noncommissioned officer who had stopped beside the dead
men, ran to catch up his line and, falling into step with a hop,
looked back angrily, and through the ominous silence and the
regular tramp of feet beating the ground in unison, one seemed to
hear left... left... left.
"Well done, lads!" said Prince Bagration.

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