Denísov, frowning, took the envelope and opened it.

“There, they kept telling us: ‘It’s dangerous, it’s dangerous,’ ” said the officer, addressing the esaul while Denísov was reading the dispatch. “But Komaróv and I”⁠—he pointed to the Cossack⁠—“were prepared. We have each of us two pistols.⁠ ⁠… But what’s this?” he asked, noticing the French drummer boy. “A prisoner? You’ve already been in action? May I speak to him?”

“Wostóv! Pétya!” exclaimed Denísov, having run through the dispatch. “Why didn’t you say who you were?” and turning with a smile he held out his hand to the lad.

The officer was Pétya Rostóv.