Ah lost, quite lost⁠ ⁠… is my head so keen, Living in a foreign land⁠ ⁠…

they sang their soldiers’ dance song.

As if responding to them but with a different sort of merriment, the metallic sound of the bells reverberated high above and the hot rays of the sun bathed the top of the opposite slope with yet another sort of merriment. But beneath the slope, by the cart with the wounded near the panting little nag where Pierre stood, it was damp, somber, and sad.

The soldier with the swollen cheek looked angrily at the cavalry singers.

“Oh, the coxcombs!” he muttered reproachfully.

“It’s not the soldiers only, but I’ve seen peasants today, too.⁠ ⁠… The peasants⁠—even they have to go,” said the soldier behind the cart, addressing Pierre with a sad smile. “No distinctions made nowadays.⁠ ⁠… They want the whole nation to fall on them⁠—in a word, it’s Moscow! They want to make an end of it.”