⁠ ⁠… Natásha⁠ ⁠… sister, black eyes⁠ ⁠… Na⁠ ⁠… tásha⁠ ⁠… (Won’t she be surprised when I tell her how I’ve seen the Emperor?) Natásha⁠ ⁠… take my sabretache⁠ ⁠…”⁠—“Keep to the right, your honor, there are bushes here,” came the voice of an hussar, past whom Rostóv was riding in the act of falling asleep. Rostóv lifted his head that had sunk almost to his horse’s mane and pulled up beside the hussar. He was succumbing to irresistible, youthful, childish drowsiness. “But what was I thinking? I mustn’t forget. How shall I speak to the Emperor? No, that’s not it⁠—that’s tomorrow. Oh yes! Natásha⁠ ⁠… sabretache⁠ ⁠… saber them⁠ ⁠… Whom? The hussars⁠ ⁠… Ah, the hussars with mustaches. Along the Tverskáya Street rode the hussar with mustaches⁠ ⁠… I thought about him too, just opposite Gúryev’s house⁠ ⁠… Old Gúryev.⁠ ⁠… Oh, but Denísov’s a fine fellow. But that’s all nonsense. The chief thing is that the Emperor is here. How he looked at me and wished to say something, but dared not.⁠ ⁠… No, it was I who dared not. But that’s nonsense, the chief thing is not to forget the important thing I was thinking of. Yes, Na-tásha, sabretache, oh, yes, yes! That’s right!” And his head once more sank to his horse’s neck. All at once it seemed to him that he was being fired at. “What? What? What?⁠ ⁠… Cut them down!