‘O Lord! it will be the death of me! O Lord!’ the soldier groaned more loudly.
‘Well, I will ask them again in a minute,’ said Pierre, and getting up, he went to the door of the shed. While Pierre was going to the door, the same corporal, who had on the previous day offered Pierre a pipe, came i in from outside, accompanied by two soldiers. Both the corporal and the soldiers were in marching order, with knapsacks on and shakoes, with straps buttoned, that changed their familiar faces.
The corporal had come to the door so as to shut it in accordance with the orders given him. Before getting them out, he had to count over the prisoners.
‘Corporal, what is to be done with the sick man?’ Pierre was beginning, but at the very moment that he spoke the words he doubted whether i it were the corporal he knew or some stranger—the corporal was so unlike himself at that moment. Moreover, at the moment Pierre was: speaking, the roll of drums was suddenly heard on both sides. The corporal scowled at Pierre’s words, and uttering a meaningless oath, he i
ammed the door. It was half-dark now in the shed; the drums beat a iarp tattoo on both sides, drowning the sick man’s groans.
‘Here it is! ... Here it is again!’ Pierre said to himself, and an in- iluntary shudder ran down his back. In the changed face of the cor- !>ral, in the sound of his voice, in the stimulating and deafening din of te drums, Pierre recognised that mysterious, unsympathetic force which ove men, against their will, to do their fellow-creatures to death; that irce, the effect of which he had seen at the execution. To be afraid, to :/ and avoid that force, to appeal with entreaties or with exhortations the men who were serving as its instruments, was useless. That Pierre ew now. One could but wait and be patient. Pierre did not go near le sick man again, and did not look round at him. He stood at the door the shed in silence, scowling.
When the doors of the shed were opened, and the prisoners, huddling :ainst one another like a flock of sheep, crowded in the entry, Pierre shed in front of them, and went up to the very captain who was, so 2 corporal had declared, ready to do anything for him. The captain as in marching trim, and from his face, too, there looked out the same Pierre had recognised in the corporal’s words and in the roll of the :ums.
'Filez, filez!’ the captain was saying, frowning sternly, and looking i the prisoners crowding by him.
Pierre knew his effort would be in vain, yet he went up to him.
Well, what is it?’ said the officer, scanning him coldly, as though i did not recognise him. Pierre spoke of the sick prisoner.
He can walk, damn him! ’ said the captain.
Filez, filez!' he went on, without looking at Pierre.
Well, no, he is in agony . . .!’ Pierre was beginning.
Voulez-vous bien ? 1 . . . shouted the captain, scowling malignantly. Dram-da-da-dam, dam-dam,’ rattled the drums, and Pierre knew that
I mysterious force had already complete possession of those men, and
II to say anything more now was useless.
The officers among the prisoners were separated from the soldiers and »ered to march in front.
fhe officers, among whom was Pierre, were thirty in number; the sol- li s three hundred.
Tese officers, who had come out of other sheds, were all strangers to 3 rre, and much better dressed than he was. They looked at him in his per foot-gear with aloof and mistrustful eyes. Not far from Pierre vked a stout major, with a fat, sallow, irascible countenance. He was lr>sed in a Kazan gown, girt with a linen band, and obviously enjoyed general respect of his companion prisoners. He held his tobacco- xch in one hand thrust into his bosom; with the other he pressed the t i of his pipe. This major, panting and puffing, grumbled angrily at iv y one for pushing against him, as he fancied, and for hurrying when h e was no need of hurry, and for wondering when there was nothing o 'onder at. Another, a thin, little officer, addressed remarks to every
one, making conjectures where they were being taken now, and how f they would go that day. An official, in felt high boots and a commissar! uniform, ran from side to side to get a good view of the results of t fire in Moscow, making loud observations on what was burnt, and sayii what this or that district of the town was as it came into view. A thi officer, of Polish extraction by his accent, was arguing with the coi missariat official, trying to prove to him that he was mistaken in 1 identification of the various quarters of Moscow.
‘Why dispute?’ said the major angrily. ‘Whether it’s St. Nikola or f Vlas, it’s no matter. You see that it’s all burnt, and that’s all about . . . Why are you pushing, isn’t the road wide enough?’ he said, angri addressing a man who had passed behind him and had not push against him at all.
