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He seized his pistol and, instead of firing it, flung it at the

Frenchman and ran with all his might toward the bushes. He did

not now run with the feeling of doubt and conflict with which he

had trodden the Enns bridge, but with the feeling of a hare

fleeing from the hounds. One single sentiment, that of fear for

his young and happy life, possessed his whole being. Rapidly

leaping the furrows, he fled across the field with the

impetuosity he used to show at catchplay, now and then turning

his good-natured, pale, young face to look back. A shudder of

terror went through him: "No, better not look," he thought, but

having reached the bushes he glanced round once more. The French

had fallen behind, and just as he looked round the first man

changed his run to a walk and, turning, shouted something loudly

to a comrade farther back. Rostov paused. "No, there's some

mistake," thought he.