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Every face, from Denisov's to that of the bugler, showed one

common expression of conflict, irritation, and excitement, around

chin and mouth. The quartermaster frowned, looking at the

soldiers as if threatening to punish them. Cadet Mironov ducked

every time a ball flew past. Rostov on the left flank, mounted on

his Rook-a handsome horse despite its game leg-had the happy air

of a schoolboy called up before a large audience for an

examination in which he feels sure he will distinguish himself.

He was glancing at everyone with a clear, bright expression, as

if asking them to notice how calmly he sat under fire. But

despite himself, on his face too that same indication of

something new and stern showed round the mouth.

"Who's that curtseying there? Cadet Miwonov! That's not wight!

Look at me," cried Denisov who, unable to keep still on one spot,

kept turning his horse in front of the squadron.