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"How is it I am not moving? I have fallen, I am killed!" Rostov

asked and answered at the same instant. He was alone in the

middle of a field. Instead of the moving horses and hussars'

backs, he saw nothing before him but the motionless earth and the

stubble around him. There was warm blood under his arm. "No, I am

wounded and the horse is killed." Rook tried to rise on his

forelegs but fell back, pinning his rider's leg. Blood was

flowing from his head; he struggled but could not rise. Rostov

also tried to rise but fell back, his sabretache having become

entangled in the saddle. Where our men were, and where the

French, he did not know. There was no one near.