Page 576 of 3800

The cadet was Rostov. With one hand he supported the other; he

was pale and his jaw trembled, shivering feverishly. He was

placed on "Matvevna," the gun from which they had removed the

dead officer. The cloak they spread under him was wet with blood

which stained his breeches and arm.

"What, are you wounded, my lad?" said Tushin, approaching the gun

on which Rostov sat.

"No, it's a sprain."

"Then what is this blood on the gun carriage?" inquired Tushin.

"It was the officer, your honor, stained it," answered the

artilleryman, wiping away the blood with his coat sleeve, as if

apologizing for the state of his gun.