Pierre clutched his temples, and turning round went into the forest, trampling through the deep snow, and muttering incoherent words:

“Folly⁠ ⁠… folly! Death⁠ ⁠… lies⁠ ⁠…” he repeated, puckering his face.

Nesvítski stopped him and took him home.

Rostóv and Denísov drove away with the wounded Dólokhov.

The latter lay silent in the sleigh with closed eyes and did not answer a word to the questions addressed to him. But on entering Moscow he suddenly came to and, lifting his head with an effort, took Rostóv, who was sitting beside him, by the hand. Rostóv was struck by the totally altered and unexpectedly rapturous and tender expression on Dólokhov’s face.

“Well? How do you feel?” he asked.