“Why, colonel,” he shouted, while still galloping towards him, “I told you to burn the bridge, and now some one’s got it wrong; they’re all frantic over there, there’s no making out anything.”

The colonel in a leisurely way stopped the regiment and turned to Nesvitsky.

“You told me about burning materials,” he said; “but about burning it, you never said a word.”

“Why, my good man,” said Nesvitsky, as he halted, taking off his forage-cap and passing his plump hand over his hair, which was drenched with sweat, “what need to say the bridge was to be burnt when you put burning materials to it?”

“I’m not your ‘good man,’ M. le staff-officer, and you never told me to set fire to the bridge! I know my duty, and it’s my habit to carry out my orders strictly. You said the bridge will be burnt, but who was going to burn it I couldn’t tell.”

“Well, that’s always the way,” said Nesvitsky, with a wave of his arm. “How do you come here?” he added, addressing Zherkov.

“Why, about the same order. You’re sopping though, you want to be rubbed down.”

“You said, M. le staff-officer …” pursued the colonel in an aggrieved tone.

“Colonel,” interposed the officer of the suite, “there is need of haste, or the enemy will have moved up their grape-shot guns.”

The colonel looked dumbly at the officer of the suite, at the stout staff-officer, at Zherkov, and scowled.

“I will burn the bridge,” he said in a solemn tone, as though he would express that in spite of everything they might do to annoy him, he would still do what he ought.

Beating his long muscular legs against his horse, as though he were to blame for it all, the colonel moved forward and commanded the second squadron, the one under Denisov’s command, in which Rostov was serving, to turn back to the bridge.

“Yes, it really is so,” thought Rostov, “he wants to test me!” His heart throbbed and the blood rushed to his face. “Let him see whether I’m a coward!” he thought.

Again all the light-hearted faces of the men of the squadron wore that grave line, which had come upon them when they were under fire. Rostov looked steadily at his enemy, the colonel, trying to find confirmation of his suppositions on his face. But the colonel never once glanced at Rostov, and looked, as he always did at the front, stern and solemn. The word of command was given.

“Look sharp! look sharp!” several voices repeated around him.

Their swords catching in the reins and their spurs jingling, the hussars dismounted in haste, not knowing themselves what they were to do. The soldiers crossed themselves. Rostov did not look at the colonel now; he had no time. He dreaded, with a sinking heart he dreaded, being left behind by the hussars. His hand trembled as he gave his horse to an orderly, and he felt that the blood was rushing to his heart with a thud. Denisov, rolling backwards, and shouting something, rode by him. Rostov saw nothing but the hussars running around him, clinking spurs and jingling swords.

“Stretchers!” shouted a voice behind him. Rostov did not think of the meaning of the need of stretchers. He ran along, trying only to be ahead of all. But just at the bridge, not looking at his feet, he got into the slippery, trodden mud, and stumbling fell on his hands. The others out-stripped him.