It seemed to him that it was getting lighter.

To the left he saw a sloping descent lit up, and facing it a black knoll that seemed as steep as a wall.

On this knoll there was a white patch that Rostov could not at all make out: was it a glade in the wood lit up by the moon, or some unmelted snow, or some white houses? He even thought something moved on that white spot.

" I expect it's snow... that spot... a spot--une tache," he thought.