had experienced as previously, all the inner struggle to conquer that fear, all his dreams of distinguishing himself as a true hussar in this battle, had been wasted. Their squadron remained in reserve and Nikoláy Rostóv spent that day in a dull and wretched mood.
At nine in the morning, he heard firing in front and shouts of hurrah , and saw wounded being brought back (there were not many of them), and at last he saw how a whole detachment of French cavalry was brought in, convoyed by a sótnya of Cossacks.
Evidently the affair was over and, though not big, had been a successful engagement. The men and officers returning spoke of a brilliant victory, of the occupation of the town of Wischau and the capture of a whole French squadron.
The day was bright and sunny after a sharp night frost, and the cheerful glitter of that autumn day was in keeping with the news of victory which was conveyed, not only by the tales of those who had taken part in it, but also by the joyful expression on the faces of soldiers, officers, generals, and adjutants, as they passed Rostóv going or coming.
And Nikoláy, who had vainly suffered all the dread that precedes a battle and had spent that happy day in inactivity, was all the more depressed.
“Come here, Wostóv. Let’s dwink to dwown our gwief!” shouted Denísov, who had settled down by the roadside with a flask and some food.
The officers gathered round Denísov’s canteen, eating and talking.
“There! They are bringing another!” cried one of the officers, indicating a captive French dragoon who was being brought in on foot by two Cossacks.
One of them was leading by