From the regimental commander’s, Denísov rode straight to the staff with a sincere desire to act on this advice. In the evening he came back to his dugout in a state such as Rostóv had never yet seen him in. Denísov could not speak and gasped for breath. When Rostóv asked what was the matter, he only uttered some incoherent oaths and threats in a hoarse, feeble voice.

Alarmed at Denísov’s condition, Rostóv suggested that he should undress, drink some water, and send for the doctor.

“Twy me for wobbewy⁠ ⁠… oh! Some more water⁠ ⁠… Let them twy me, but I’ll always thwash scoundwels⁠ ⁠… and I’ll tell the Empewo’⁠ ⁠… Ice⁠ ⁠…” he muttered.

The regimental doctor, when he came, said it was absolutely necessary to bleed Denísov. A deep saucer of black blood was taken from his hairy arm and only then was he able to relate what had happened to him.