so, and came out upon the square where the streets of the Transmoskvá ward and the Kalúga road converge, and the prisoners jammed close together had to stand for some hours at that crossway. From all sides, like the roar of the sea, were heard the rattle of wheels, the tramp of feet, and incessant shouts of anger and abuse. Pierre stood pressed against the wall of a charred house, listening to that noise which mingled in his imagination with the roll of the drums.
To get a better view, several officer prisoners climbed onto the wall of the half-burned house against which Pierre was leaning.
“What crowds! Just look at the crowds! … They’ve loaded goods even on the cannon! Look there, those are furs!” they exclaimed. “Just see what the blackguards have looted. … There! See what that one has behind in the cart. … Why, those are settings taken from some icons, by heaven! … Oh, the rascals! … See how that fellow has loaded himself up, he can hardly walk! Good lord, they’ve even grabbed those chaises! … See that fellow there sitting on the trunks. … Heavens! They’re fighting.”