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From all sides were heard the footsteps and talk of the infantry,

who were walking, driving past, and settling down all around. The

sound of voices, the tramping feet, the horses' hoofs moving in

mud, the crackling of wood fires near and afar, merged into one

tremulous rumble.

It was no longer, as before, a dark, unseen river flowing through

the gloom, but a dark sea swelling and gradually subsiding after

a storm. Rostov looked at and listened listlessly to what passed

before and around him. An infantryman came to the fire, squatted

on his heels, held his hands to the blaze, and turned away his

face.

"You don't mind your honor?" he asked Tushin. "I've lost my

company, your honor. I don't know where... such bad luck!"