his hair. The man lay on his back, his huge arms and legs outstretched. His face was purple, his eyes were rolled back so that only the whites were seen, and on his bare legs and arms which were still red, the veins stood out like cords. He was knocking the back of his head against the floor, hoarsely uttering some word which he kept repeating. Rostóv listened and made out the word. It was “drink, drink, a drink!” Rostóv glanced round, looking for someone who would put this man back in his place and bring him water.
“Who looks after the sick here?” he asked the assistant.
Just then a commissariat soldier, a hospital orderly, came in from the next room, marching stiffly, and drew up in front of Rostóv.
“Good day, your honor!” he shouted, rolling his eyes at Rostóv and evidently mistaking him for one of the hospital authorities.
“Get him to his place and give him some water,” said Rostóv, pointing to the Cossack.
“Yes, your honor,” the soldier replied complacently, and rolling his