sighed and looked down.
“All right, immediately,” he replied to a dresser who pointed Prince Andréy out to him, and he told them to carry him into the tent.
Murmurs arose among the wounded who were waiting.
“It seems that even in the next world only the gentry are to have a chance!” remarked one.
Prince Andréy was carried in and laid on a table that had only just been cleared and which a dresser was washing down. Prince Andréy could not make out distinctly what was in that tent. The pitiful groans from all sides and the torturing pain in his thigh, stomach, and back distracted him. All he saw about him merged into a general impression of naked, bleeding human bodies that seemed to fill the whole of the low tent, as a few weeks previously, on that hot August day, such bodies had filled the dirty pond beside the Smolénsk road. Yes, it was the same flesh, the same chair à canon , the sight of which had even then filled him with horror, as by a presentiment.