And the excited, alien face of that man, his bayonet hanging down, holding his breath, and running so lightly, frightened Rostov.

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.