“Why； aren’t you asleep； sir？” said a Cossack； sitting under the waggon。
“No； but … Lihatchev—I believe that’s your name； eh？ You know I have only just come back。 We have been calling on the French。” And Petya gave the Cossack a detailed account； not only of his adventure； but also of his reasons for going； and why he thought it better to risk his life than to do things in a haphazard way。
“Well； you must be sleepy； get a little sleep；” said the Cossack。
“No； I am used to it；” answered Petya。 “And how are the flints in our pistols—not worn out？ I brought some with me。 Don’t you want any？ Do take some。”
The Cossack popped out from under the waggon to take a closer look at Petya。
“For； you see； I like to do everything carefully；” said Petya。 “Some men； you know； leave things to chance； and don’t have things ready； and then they regret it。 I don’t like that。”
“No； to be sure；” said the Cossack。
“Oh； and another thing； please； my dear fellow； sharpen my sabre for me； I have blunt …” （but Petya could not bring out a lie） … “it has never been sharpened。 Can you do that？”
“To be sure I can。”
Lihatchev stood up； and rummaged in the baggage； and Petya stood and heard the martial sound of steel and whetstone。 He clambered on to the waggon； and sat on the edge of it。 The Cossack sharpened the sabre below。
“Are the other brave fellows asleep？” said Petya。
“Some are asleep； and some are awake； like us。”
“And what about the boy？”
“Vesenny？ He’s lying yonder in the hay。 He’s sleeping well after his fright。 He was so pleased。”
For a long while after that Petya sat quiet； listening to the sounds。 There was a sound of footsteps in the darkness； and a dark figure appeared。
“What are you sharpening？” asked a man coming up to the waggon。
“A sabre for the gentleman here。”
“That’s a good thing；” said the man； who seemed to Petya to be an hussar。 “Was the cup left with you here？”
“It’s yonder by the wheel。” The hussar took the cup。 “It will soon be daylight；” he added； yawning； as he walked off。
Petya must； one would suppose； have known that he was in a wood； with Denisov’s band of irregulars； a verst from the road； that he was sitting on a waggon captured from the French； that there were horses fastened to it； that under it was sitting the Cossack Lihatchev sharpening his sabre； that the big； black blur on the right was the hut； and the red； bright glow below on the left the dying camp…fire； that the man who had come for the cup was an hussar who was thirsty。 But Petya knew nothing of all that； and refused to know it。 He was in a fairyland； in which nothing was like the reality。 The big patch of shadow might be a hut certainly； but it might be a cave leading down into the very depths of the earth。 The red patch might be a fire； but it might be the eye of a huge monster。 Perhaps he really was sitting now on a waggon； but very likely he was sitting not on a waggon； but on a fearfully high tower； and if he fell off； he would go on flying to the earth for a whole day； for a whole month—fly and fly for ever and never reach it。 Perhaps it was simply the Cossack Lihatchev sitting under the waggon； but very likely it was the kindest； bravest； most wonderful and splendid man in the world whom no one knew of。 Perhaps it really was an hussar who had come for water and gone into the hollow； but perhaps he had just vanished； vanished altogether and was no more。
Whatever Petya had seen now； it would not have surprised him。 He was in a land of fairies； where everything was possible。
He gazed at the sky。 The sky too was an enchanted realm like the earth。 It had begun to clear； and the clouds were scudding over the tree…tops； as though unveiling the stars。 At times it seemed as though they were swept away； and there were glimpses of clear； black sky between them。 At times these black patches looked like storm…clouds。 At times the sky seemed to rise high； high overhead； and then again to be dropping down so that one could reach it with the hand。
Petya closed his eyes and began to nod。 The branches dripped。 There was a low hum of talk and the sound of some one snoring。 The horses neighed and scuffled。
“Ozheeg； zheeg； ozheeg； zheeg…” hissed the sabre on the whetstone； and all at once Petya seemed to hear harmonious music； an orchestra playing some unfamiliar； solemnly sweet hymn。 Petya was as musical by nature as Natasha； and far more so than Nikolay； but he had had no musical training； and never thought about music； so that the melody that came unexpectedly into his mind had a special freshness and charm for him。 The music became more and more distinct。 The melody grew and passed from one instrument to another。 There was being played what is called a fugue； though Petya had not the slightest idea of what was meant by a fugue。 Each instrument—one like a violin； others like flutes； but fuller and more melodious than violins and flutes—played its part； and before it had finished the air； melted in with another； beginning almost the same air； and with a third and a fourth； and all mingled into one harmony； and parted again； and again mingled into solemn church music； and then into some brilliant and triumphant song of victory。
“Oh yes； of course I am dreaming；” Petya said to himself； nodding forward。 “It is only in my ears。 Perhaps； though； it’s my own music。 Come； again。 Strike up； my music！ Come！…”
He closed his eyes。 And from various directions the sounds began vibrating as though from a distance； began to strike up； to part； and to mingle again； all joined in the same sweet and solemn hymn。 “Ah how exquisite！ As much as I want； and as I like it！” Petya said to himself。 He tried to conduct this immense orchestra。
“Come； softly； softly； now！” And the sounds obeyed him。 “Come； now fuller； livelier！ More and more joyful！” And from unknown depths rose the swelling； triumphant sounds。 “Now； voices； join in！” Petya commanded。 And at first in the distance he heard men’s voices； then women’s。 The voices swelled into rhythmic； triumphant fulness。 Petya felt awe and joy as he drank in their marvellous beauty。
With the triumphant march of victory mingled the song of voices； and the drip of the branches and the zheeg； zheeg； zheeg of the sabre on the whetstone； and again the horses neighed and scuffled； not disturbing the harmony； but blending into it。 How long it lasted； Petya could not tell； he was enjoying it； and wondering all the while at his own enjoyment； and regretting he had no one to share it with。 He was waked by the friendly voice of Lihatchev。
“It’s ready； your honour； you can cut the Frenchman in two now。”
Petya waked up。
“Why； it’s light already； it’s really getting light；” he cried。 The horses； unseen before； were visible to the tails now； and through the leafless boughs there could be seen a watery light。 Petya shook himself； jumped up； took a rouble out of his pocket； and gave it to Lihatchev； brandished his sabre to try it； and thrust it into the scabbard。 The Cossacks were untying the horses and fastening the saddlegirths。
“And here is the commander；” said Lihatchev。
Denisov came out of the hut； and calling to Petya； bade him get ready。
Chapter 11
RAPIDLY in the twilight the men picked out their horses； tightened saddlegirths； and formed into parties。 Denisov stood by the hut； giving the last orders。 The infantry of the detachment moved on along the road； hundreds of feet splashing through the mud。 They quickly vanished among the trees in the mist before the dawn。 The esaul gave some order to the Cossacks。 Petya held his horse by the bridle； eagerly awaiting the word of command to mount。 His face glowed from a dip in cold water； and his eyes gleamed。 He felt a chill running down his back； and a kind of rapid； rhythmic throbbing all over。
“Well； have you everything ready？” said Denisov。 “Give us our horses。”
They brought the horses up。 Denisov was vexed with the Cossack because the saddlegirths were slack； and swore at him as he mounted his horse。 Petya put his foot in the stirrup。 The horse； as its habit was； made as though to nip at his leg； but Petya leaped into the saddle； unconscious of his own weight； and looking round at the hussars moving up from behind in the darkness； he rode up to Denisov。
“Vassily Fyodorovitch； you will trust me with some commission？ Please…for God’s sake…” he said。 Denisov seemed to have forgotten Petya’s existence。 He looked round at him。
“One thing I beg of you；” he said sternly； “to obey me and not to put yourself forward。”
All the way Denisov did not say another word to Petya； he rode on in silence。 By the time that they reached the edge of the wood； it was perceptibly getting light in the open country。 Denisov whispered something to the esaul； and the Cossacks began riding by Petya and Denisov。 When they had all passed on Denisov put his spurs to his horse； and rode downhill。 Slipping and sinking back on their haunches； the horses slid down into the hollow with their riders。 Petya kept beside Denisov。 The tremor all over him was growing more intense。 It was getting lighter and lighter； but the mist hid objects at a distance。 When he had reached the bottom； Denisov looked back and nodded to the Cossack beside him。
“The signal；” he said。 The Cossack raised his arm； and a shot rang out。 At the same moment they heard the tramp of horses galloping in front； shouts from different directions； and more shots。
The instant that he heard the first tramp of hoofs and shouts； Petya gave the rein to his horse； and lashing him on； galloped forward； heedless of Denisov； who shouted to him。 It seemed to Petya that it suddenly became broad daylight； as though it were midday； at the moment when he heard the shot。 He galloped to the bridge。 The Cossacks were galloping along the road in front。 At the bridge he jostled against a Cossack who had lagged behind； and he galloped on。 In front Petya saw men of some sort—the French he supposed—running across the road from right to left。 One slipped in the mud under his horse’s legs。
Cossacks were crowding about a hut； doing something。 A fearful scream rose out of the middle of the crowd。 Petya galloped to this crowd； and the first thing he saw was the white face and tremb