The militiamen with stretchers who were called up stood behind the officers. Prince Andréy lay on his chest with his face in the grass, breathing heavily and noisily.
“What are you waiting for? Come along!”
The peasants went up and took him by his shoulders and legs, but he moaned piteously and, exchanging looks, they set him down again.
“Pick him up, lift him, it’s all the same!” cried someone.
They again took him by the shoulders and laid him on the stretcher.
“Ah, God! My God! What is it? The stomach? That means death! My God!”—voices among the officers were heard saying.
“It flew a hair’s breadth past my ear,” said the adjutant.
The peasants, adjusting the stretcher to their shoulders, started hurriedly along the path they had trodden down, to the dressing station.
“Keep in step! Ah … those peasants!” shouted an officer, seizing by their shoulders and checking the peasants, who were walking unevenly and jolting the stretcher.
“Get into step, Fëdor … I say, Fëdor!” said the foremost peasant.
“Now that’s right!” said the one behind joyfully, when he had got into step.
“Your excellency! Eh, Prince!” said the trembling voice of Timókhin, who had run up and was looking down on the stretcher.