lay with head thrown back the motionless figure of a young soldier with a waxen pallor on his snub- nosed and still freckled face, and eyes sunken under the lids. Rostov looked at the snub-nosed soldier and a shiver ran down his back.

“Why, that one seems to be …” he said to the assistant.

“We’ve begged and begged, your honour,” said the old soldier with a quiver in his lower jaw. “He died early in the morning. We’re men, too, not dogs.…”

“I’ll see to it directly; they shall take him, they shall take him away,” said the assistant hurriedly. “Come, your honour.”

“Let us go, let us go,” said Rostov hastily; and dropping his eyes and shrinking together, trying to pass unnoticed through the lines of those reproachful and envious eyes fastened upon him, he went out of the room.