KUTUZOV, accompanied by his adjutants, followed the carabineers at a walking pace.

After going on for half a mile at the tail of the column, he stopped at a solitary, deserted house (probably once an inn), near the branching of two roads. Both roads led downhill, and troops were marching along both.

The fog was beginning to part, and a mile and a half away the enemy's troops could be indistinctly seen on the opposite heights. On the left below, the firing became more distinct. Kutuzov stood still in conversation with an Austrian general. Prince Andrey standing a little behind watched them intently, and turned to an adjutant, meaning to ask him for a field-glass.

“Look, look!” this adjutant said, looking not at the troops in the distance, but down the hill before him. “It's the French!”

The two generals and the adjutant began snatching at the field-glass, pulling it from one another. All their faces suddenly changed, and horror was apparent in them all. They had supposed the French to be over a mile and a half away, and here they were all of a sudden confronting us.

“Is it the enemy? … No. … But, look, it is … for certain.… What does it mean?” voices were heard saying.

With the naked eye Prince Andrey saw to the right, below them, a dense column of French soldiers coming up towards the Apsheron regiment, not over five hundred paces from where Kutuzov was standing.

“Here it is, it is coming, the decisive moment! My moment has come,” thought Prince Andrey, and slashing his horse, he rode up to Kutuzov.

“We must stop the Apsheron regiment,” he shouted, “your most high excellency.”

But at that instant everything was lost in a cloud of smoke, there was a sound of firing close by, and a voice in na?ve terror cried not two paces from Prince Andrey: “Hey, mates, it's all up!” And this voice was like a command. At that voice there was a general rush, crowds, growing larger every moment, ran back in confusion to the spot where five minutes before they had marched by the Emperors. It was not simply difficult to check this rushing crowd, it was impossible not to be carried back with the stream oneself. Bolkonsky tried only not to be left behind by it, and looked about him in bewilderment, unable to grasp what was taking place. Nesvitsky, with an exasperated, crimson face, utterly unlike himself, was shouting to Kutuzov that if he didn't get away at once he'd be taken prisoner to a certainty. Kutuzov was standing in the same place: he was taking out his handkerchief, and did not answer. The blood was flowing from his cheek. Prince Andrey forced his way up to him.

“You are wounded?” he asked, hardly able to control the quivering of his lower jaw.

“The wound's not here, but there, see!” said Kutuzov, pressing the handkerchief to his wounded cheek, and pointing to the running soldiers.

“Stop them!” he shouted, and at the same time convinced that it was impossible to stop them, he lashed his horse and rode to the right. A fresh rush of flying crowds caught him up with it and carried him back.

The troops were running in such a dense multitude, that once getting into the midst of the crowd, it was a hard matter to get out of it. One was shouting: “Get on! what are you lagging for?” Another was turning round to fire in the air; another striking the very horse on which Kutuzov was mounted. Getting out with an immense effort from the stream on the left, Kutuzov, with his suite diminished to a half, rode towards the sounds of cannon close by. Prince Andrey, trying not to be left behind by Kutuzov, saw, as he got out of the racing multitude, a Russian battery still firing in the smoke on the hillside and the French running towards it. A little higher up stood Russian infantry, neither moving forward to the support of the battery, nor back in the same direction as the runaways. A general on horseback detached himself from the infantry and rode towards Kutuzov. Of Kutuzov's suite only four men were left. They were all pale and looking at one another dumbly.

“Stop those wretches!” Kutuzov gasped to the officer in command of the regiment, pointing to the flying soldiers. But at the same instant, as though in revenge for the words, the bullets came whizzing over the regiment and Kutuzov's suite like a flock of birds. The French were attacking the battery, and catching sight of Kutuzov, they were shooting at him. With this volley the general clutched at his leg; several soldiers fell, and the second lieutenant standing with the flag let it drop out of his hands. The flag tottered and was caught on the guns of the nearest soldiers. The soldiers had begun firing without orders.

“Ooogh!” Kutuzov growled with an expression of despair, and he looked round him. “Bolkonsky,” he whispered in a voice shaking with the consciousness of his old age and helplessness. “Bolkonsky,” he whispered, pointing to the routed battalion and the enemy, “what's this?”

But before he had uttered the words, Prince Andrey, feeling the tears of shame and mortification rising in his throat, was jumping off his horse and running to the flag.

“Lads, forward!” he shrieked in a voice of childish shrillness. “Here, it is come!” Prince Andrey thought, seizing the staff of the flag, and hearing with relief the whiz of bullets, unmistakably aimed at him. Several soldiers dropped.

“Hurrah!” shouted Prince Andrey, and hardly able to hold up the heavy flag in both his hands, he ran forward in the unhesitating conviction that the whole battalion would run after him. And in fact it was only for a few steps that he ran alone. One soldier started, then another, and then the whole battalion with a shout of “hurrah!” was running forward and overtaking him. An under-officer of the battalion ran up and took the flag which tottered from its weight in Prince Andrey's hands, but he was at once killed. Prince Andrey snatched up the flag again, and waving it by the staff, ran on with the battalion. In front of him he saw our artillery men, of whom some were fighting, while others had abandoned their cannons and were running towards him. He saw French infantry soldiers, too, seizing the artillery horses and turning the cannons round. Prince Andrey and the battalion were within twenty paces of the cannons. He heard the bullets whizzing over him incessantly, and continually the soldiers moaned and fell to the right and left of him. But he did not look at them; his eyes were fixed on what was going on in front of him—at the battery. He could now see distinctly the figure of the red-haired artilleryman, with a shako crushed on one side, pulling a mop one way, while a French soldier was tugging it the other way. Prince Andrey could see distinctly now the distraught, and at the same time exasperated expression of the faces of the two men, who were obviously quite unconscious of what they were doing.

“What are they about?” wondered Prince Andrey, watching them; “why doesn't the red-haired artilleryman run, since he has no weapon? Why doesn't the Frenchman stab him? He won't have time to run away before the Frenchman will think of his gun, and knock him on the head.” Another Frenchman did, indeed, run up to the combatants with his gun almost overbalancing him, and the fate of the red-haired artilleryman, who still had no conception of what was awaiting him, and was pulling the mop away in triumph, was probably sealed. But Prince Andrey did not see how it ended. It seemed to him as though a hard stick was swung full at him by some soldier near, dealing him a violent blow on the head. It hurt a little, but the worst of it was that the pain distracted his attention, and prevented him from seeing what he was looking at.

“What's this? am I falling? my legs are giving way under me,” he thought, and fell on his back. He opened his eyes, hoping to see how the struggle of the French soldiers with the artilleryman was ending, and eager to know whether the red-haired artilleryman was killed or not, whether the cannons had been taken or saved. But he saw nothing of all that. Above him there was nothing but the sky—the lofty sky, not clear, but still immeasurably lofty, with grey clouds creeping quietly over it. “How quietly, peacefully, and triumphantly, and not like us running, shouting, and fighting, not like the Frenchman and artilleryman dragging the mop from one another with frightened and frantic faces, how differently are those clouds creeping over that lofty, limitless sky. How was it I did not see that lofty sky before? And how happy I am to have found it at last. Yes! all is vanity, all is a cheat, except that infinite sky. There is nothing, nothing but that. But even that is not, there is nothing but peace and stillness. And thank God! …”

库图佐夫在副官们的伴随下跟在卡宾枪手背后一步一步地缓行。

他尾随于纵队之后骑行半俄里左右，便在两条大路岔道口附近的一幢孤零零的无人管理的房子旁边止步了（大概是从前的酒馆）。两条大路向山下延伸，部队都沿着两条大路向前推进。

雾霭开始渐渐地散开，莫约在两俄里以外的地方，可以看见对面高地上的敌军。山下的左方，射击声听来更加清晰了。库图佐夫停住了脚步，和一位奥国将军谈话。安德烈公爵站在他们背后稍远的地方，凝视着他们，他把脸转向一名副官，想向他要台望远镜。

“您瞧瞧，您瞧瞧，”这个副官说着，他不望那远方的部队却沿着他前面的一座大山向下望去。“这是法国人啊！”

两位将军和几名副官互相争夺，抓起了一台望远镜。大家的脸色忽然变了，个个流露着惊骇的神态。大家原以为法国人在二俄里以外，可是出乎意外，他们忽然在我们面前出现了。

“这是敌人吗？……不是啊！是的，您看，敌人……一定是……这是怎么回事？”可以听见众人的说话声。

安德烈公爵在右下方，离库图佐夫至多五百步远的地方，用肉眼望见冲上山来迎击阿普舍龙兵团官兵的密密麻麻的法国纵队。

“看，法国纵队，紧要关头来到了！这事儿与我有关。”安德烈公爵想了想，于是策马走到库图佐夫跟前。

“应当阻止阿普舍龙兵团的人马，”他大声喊道，“大人！”

但是就在这一瞬间，一切都被硝烟遮蔽了，传来近处的枪声。离安德烈公爵两步路远的地方可以听见一声幼稚的惊惶失措的喊叫：“喂，弟兄们，停下来！”这一声喊叫仿佛是一道口令。大家一听见喊声就急忙逃命。

混乱的人群愈益增多，一齐向后退却，跑至五分钟以前部队从两位皇帝身边走过的那个地方。叫这一群人站住不仅十分困难，而且本人也不能不随同人群退却。博尔孔斯基只是力求不落在人群背后，他不停地向四下张望，感到困窘不安，他无法了解他面前发生的情况。涅斯维茨基装出一副凶恶的样子，满脸通红，相貌完全变了，他向库图佐夫大声喊道，如果他不马上离开，他必将被俘。库图佐夫还站在原来的地方，他取出一条手帕，没有回答。他的面颊上流出了鲜血。安德烈公爵从人群中挤过去，走到他跟前。

“您负伤了么？”他问道，勉强忍住了，下颌才没有颤抖。

“伤口不在这里，而是在那里！”库图佐夫说，一面用手帕紧紧按着受伤的面颊，一面指着奔跑的官兵。

“叫他们站住！”他喊了一声，同时他也许深信，叫他们站住是不可能的，于是驱马向右边疾驰而去。

又蜂拥而至的一群逃跑者，把他拖在一起向后撤退了。

密密麻麻的部队拼命地奔跑，只要窜进了人群中间，就很难走出来。有个什么人喊道：“走吧！干嘛要磨磨蹭蹭！”就在这时，有个人转过头来对天开枪，有个人鞭挞库图佐夫本人乘坐的战马。侍从的人数少了一半以上，库图佐夫和他们很费劲地才从左面的人流中钻出来，朝着近处隐约可闻的炮声隆隆的地方驰去。安德烈公爵好不容易才从奔跑的人群中挤出来，力图不落在库图佐夫背后，他从硝烟弥漫的山坡上看见了还在射击的俄国炮台和向它附近跑来的法国官兵。俄国步兵驻守在地势略高的地方，他们既没有前去支援炮队，也没有随着奔跑的士兵朝一个方向退却。有一位将军骑着战马离开了步兵，向库图佐夫跟前走去。库图佐夫的侍从只剩下四人，个个都脸色苍白，沉默地彼此对看着。

“叫这些坏蛋站住！”库图佐夫指着奔跑的士兵，气喘吁吁地对团长说，但是就在这一瞬间，仿佛是对这些话的报应似的，一枚枚子弹有如一群雏鸟掠过兵团和库图佐夫的侍从的上空，发出嗖嗖的响声。

法国人攻打炮台，看见库图佐夫之后，对他开枪射击，随着这一阵齐射，团长急忙抓住自己一条腿，几名士兵倒下了，一名举看军旗站立的下级准尉，放开手里的军旗，这面军旗摇摇晃晃，倒下了，架在邻近的士兵的枪上。士兵们没有听见口令就开始射击。

“啊呀！”库图佐夫露出绝望的神情闷声闷气地说，他回头看了一下。“博尔孔斯基，”他低声地说，因为意识到自己年老体弱，声音颤抖了。“博尔孔斯基，”他指着溃散的营队，又指着敌人，低声地说，“这是怎么回事啊？”

可是，当他还没有说完这句话，安德烈公爵就感觉到羞愧和愤怒的眼泪涌进了他的喉头，于是他翻身下马，向军旗面前走去。

“伙伴们，前进！”他用儿童般的尖锐的嗓音喊了一声。

“你看，这就是军旗！”安德烈公爵心中想着，他抓起旗杆，高兴地听着想必正是向他射来的子弹的啸声。有几个士兵倒下了。

“乌拉！”安德烈公爵喊道，他勉强擎起一面沉重的军旗，向前跑去，他心中坚信，全营都会跟随着他跑步前进。

诚然，他独自一人仅仅跑了几步路。一个士兵，又一个士兵行动起来了。全营都高喊“乌拉”，跑步前进，并且赶到他前面去了。这个兵营的士官跑到了前面，他拿起那面因为太重而在安德烈公爵手中摇摇晃晃的军旗，但是他马上就被击毙了。安德烈公爵又急忙拿起军旗，拖着旗杆，带领一营人跑步前进。他看见前面有我们的炮兵，其中一些人正在战斗，另一些人抛弃大炮，向他迎面跑来；他也看见法国的步兵，他们正在抓着炮兵的马，掉转那大炮。安德烈公爵带领一营人走到了离大炮二十步远的地方。他听见上空的子弹不停地呼啸，他的左右两旁的士兵不住地呻吟，一个个都倒下来。但是他不观望他们，他所凝视的只是在他前面——炮台上发生的事情。他清晰地看见一个歪歪戴着高筒军帽的头发棕红的炮兵的身影，他从一端拖着洗膛杆，而法国士兵却抓着另一端把它拖过去。安德烈公爵清楚地看见这两个人的不知所措而又凶恶的面部表情，看起来，他们并不明白他们在干什么。

“他们在干什么？”安德烈公爵一面想道，一面瞧着他们。

“既然这个棕红色头发的炮兵没有武器，他为什么不跑呢？为什么法国人不刺杀他呢？如果法国人想起自己的枪，用刺刀刺杀他的话，他连跑都来不及了。”

诚然，另一个法国人向前斜提着枪，朝这两个拼搏的人面前跑来，头发棕红的炮兵怀着夺得洗膛杆的胜利者的喜悦心情，还不明了等待他的是什么，他的命运已被决定了。但是安德烈公爵没有看见这件事怎样结束。他仿佛觉得，近在咫尺的某个士兵好像抡起胳臂将一根坚硬的棍子朝他头部使劲地打去。虽然疼痛得不太厉害，但是主要的是，他觉得很不好受，因为这一阵疼痛分散了他的注意力，妨碍他去望清他所观看的东西。

“这是怎么回事啊？我倒了吗？我的两腿发软了。”他想了一会儿，仰面倒下了。他睁开眼睛，希望看清楚，两个法国人和一名炮兵的搏斗有什么结局，也想知道，这个头发棕红的炮兵是否被打死，几门大炮是否被夺走，抑或保存下来。但是他什么都看不见。除开天空——高高的天空，虽不太明朗，但毕竟是广阔无垠的高空，此外他的上方什么都没有了，灰色的云彩在天际慢慢移动。“多么寂静，多么雄伟，完全不是我跑步前进时那个样子，”安德烈公爵想了想，“不是我们奔跑、喊叫和战斗时那个样子，完全不是两个法国人和一个炮兵脸上流露出凶恶和惊惶失措、互相拉扯洗膛杆时那个样子，完全不是广阔无垠的高空里的云彩慢慢移动时那个样子。我原先怎么看不见这一片高空呢？我终于认识它了，我觉得自己多么幸福。是啊！除开这广阔无垠的天空而外，什么都是虚幻，什么都是欺骗。除开它，什么，什么都没有了。但是除开静寂和安宁，甚至连天空也没有，什么都没有。谢天谢地！……”