ROSTOV, with his keen sportsman's eye, was one of the first to descry these blue dragoons pursuing our Uhlans. Nearer and nearer flew the disordered crowds of the Uhlans and the French dragoons in pursuit of them. He could see now separate figures, looking small at the bottom of the hill, fighting, overtaking one another, and waving their arms and their swords.

Rostov gazed at what was passing before him as at a hunt. He felt instinctively that if he were to charge with his hussars on the French dragoons now, they could not stand their ground; but if he were to charge it must be that very minute or it would be too late. He looked round. The captain standing beside him had his eyes too fixed on the cavalry below.

“Andrey Sevastianitch,” said Rostov, “we could close them in, surely …”

“And a smart job, too,” said the captain, “and indeed …”

Rostov, without waiting for his answer, set spurs to his horse and galloped off in front of his squadron. Before he had time to give the command, the whole squadron, sharing his feeling, flew after him. Rostov himself could not have said how or why he did it. He did it all, as he did everything in a wolf hunt, without thinking or considering. He saw that the dragoons were near, that they were galloping in no order, he knew they could not stand their ground; he knew there was only one minute to act in, which would not return if he let it slip. The cannon balls were hissing and whistling so inspiritingly about him, his horse pulled so eagerly forward that he could not resist it. He spurred his horse, shouted the command, and the same instant flew full trot down-hill towards the dragoons, hearing the tramp of his squadron behind him. As they dashed downhill, the trot insensibly passed into a gallop that became swifter and swifter, as they drew nearer their Uhlans and the French dragoons pursuing them. The dragoons were close now. The foremost, seeing the hussars, began turning back; the hindmost halted. With the same feeling with which he had dashed off to cut off the wolf's escape, Rostov, letting his Don horse go at his utmost speed, galloped to cut off the broken ranks of the dragoons. One Uhlan halted; another, on foot, flung himself to the ground to avoid being knocked down; a riderless horse was carried along with the hussars. Almost all the dragoons were galloping back. Rostov picked out one of them on a grey horse and flew after him. On the way he rode straight at a bush; his gallant horse cleared it; and Nikolay was hardly straight in the saddle again when he saw in a few seconds he would overtake the enemy he had pitched upon as his aim. The Frenchman, probably an officer from his uniform, sat crouched upon his grey horse, and urging it on with his sword. In another instant Rostov's horse dashed up against the grey horse's hindquarters, almost knocking it over, and at the same second Rostov, not knowing why he did so, raised his sword, and aimed a blow at the Frenchman.

The instant he did this all Rostov's eagerness suddenly vanished. The officer fell to the ground, not so much from the sword cut, for it had only just grazed his arm above the elbow, as from fright and the shock to his horse. As Rostov pulled his horse in, his eyes sought his foe to see what sort of man he had vanquished. The French officer was hopping along on the ground, with one foot caught in the stirrup. Screwing up his eyes, as though expecting another blow every instant, he glanced up at Rostov frowning with an expression of terror. His pale, mud-stained face—fair and young, with a dimple on the chin and clear blue eyes—was the most unwarlike, most good-natured face, more in place by a quiet fireside than on the field of battle. Before Rostov could make up his mind what to do with him, the officer shouted, “I surrender.” He tried hurriedly and failed to extricate his foot from the stirrup, and still gazed with his frightened blue eyes at Rostov. The hussars, galloping up, freed his foot, and got him into his saddle. The hussars were busily engaged on all sides with the dragoons; one was wounded, but though his face was streaming with blood he would not let go of his horse; another put his arms round an hussar as he sat perched up behind on his horse; a third was clambering on to his horse, supported by an hussar. The French infantry were in front, firing as they ran. The hussars galloped hastily back with their prisoners. Rostov galloped back with the rest, conscious of some disagreeable sensation, a kind of ache at his heart. A glimpse of something vague and confused, of which he could not get a clear view, seemed to have come to him with the capture of that French officer and the blow he had dealt him.

Count Osterman-Tolstoy met the hussars on their return, summoned Rostov, thanked him and told him he would report his gallant action to the Tsar and would recommend him for the cross of St. George. When Rostov was called up to Count Osterman, bethinking himself that he had received no command to charge, he had no doubt that his commanding officer sent for him to reprimand him for his breach of discipline. Osterman's flattering words and promise of a reward should, therefore, have been a pleasant surprise to Rostov; but he still suffered from that unpleasant vague feeling of moral nausea. “Why, what on earth is it that's worrying me?” he wondered, as he rode away from the general. “Ilyin? No, he's all right. Did I do anything disgraceful? No, that's not it either!” Something else fretted him like a remorse. “Yes, yes, that officer with the dimple. And I remember clearly how my hand paused when I had lifted it.”

Rostov saw the prisoners being led away, and galloped after them to look at his Frenchman with the dimple in his chin. He was sitting in his strange uniform on one of the spare horses, looking uneasily about him. The sword-cut in his arm could hardly be called a wound. He looked at Rostov with a constrained smile, and waved his hand by way of a greeting. Rostov still felt the same discomfort and vague remorse.

All that day and the next Rostov's friends and comrades noticed that, without being exactly depressed or irritable, he was silent, dreamy, and preoccupied. He did not care to drink, tried to be alone, and seemed absorbed in thought. Rostov was still pondering on his brilliant exploit, which, to his amazement, had won him the St. George's Cross and made his reputation indeed for fearless gallantry. There was something he could not fathom in it. “So they are even more frightened than we are,” he thought. “Why, is this all that's meant by heroism? And did I do it for the sake of my country? And was he to blame with his dimple and his blue eyes? How frightened he was! He thought I was going to kill him. Why should I kill him? My hand trembled. And they have given me the St. George's Cross. I can't make it out, I can't make it out!”

But while Nikolay was worrying over these questions in his heart and unable to find any clear solution of the doubts that troubled him, the wheel of fortune was turning in his favour, as so often happens in the service. He was brought forward after the affair at Ostrovna, received the command of a battalion of hussars, and when an officer of dauntless courage was wanted he was picked out.

罗斯托夫以自己锐利的猎人的眼睛第一个望见这些蓝色的法国龙骑兵追赶我们的枪骑兵，队形混乱的枪骑兵人群和追赶他们的法军龙骑兵越来越接近了，已经可以看见这些在山上显得很小的人们如何互相厮杀、追赶，如何挥舞胳膊或佩刀。

罗斯托夫像看猎犬逐兽似的看着面前发生的一切。他以嗅觉感觉到，如果现在与骠骑兵一起冲向法军龙骑兵，他们会站不住脚的；可是，如果要冲锋，就得即刻冲锋，一分钟也不能拖，否则就迟了。他环视自己周围。大尉就站在身旁，也目不转睛地望着下面的骑兵。

“安德烈·谢瓦斯季扬内奇，”罗斯托夫说，“要知道我们可以冲垮他们……”

“是厉害的一着，”

大尉说：“确实……”

没有听完他的话，罗斯托夫就策马驰到骑兵连前面，没有等他发出出击的口令，跟他有同感的整个骑兵连，都随他之后驱动了战马。罗斯托夫自己不知道，他是怎样做的，又为何这样做。他做这一切，正像他在打猎时所做的一样，不假思索，不假考虑。他看见龙骑兵走近了，他们在奔驰，队形散乱；他知道他们会支持不住的，他知道，时机只在转瞬之间，稍一放过，就一去不复返了。炮弹那么激烈地在他周围咝咝呼啸，战马是那样跃跃欲奔，以致于笼它不住了。他策动了战马，发出口令，在此同时，他听见身后展开队形的骑兵连的得得马蹄声，他们飞奔着冲向山下的龙骑兵。他们刚下山，大步的奔驰自然而然转为疾驰，越接近自己的枪骑兵和追赶他们的法国龙骑兵，就越驰越快，离龙骑兵很近了，前面那些看见骠骑兵的龙骑兵开始向后转，后面的停住了。怀着堵截狼的心情，罗斯托夫完全放开自己的顿河马，疾驰着堵截队形混乱的龙骑兵。一个枪骑兵停下来了，一个步兵伏下身子以免被马踩着，一匹失掉了马鞍的马混在骠骑兵中间。几乎所有的法军龙骑兵都向后奔逃。罗斯托夫挑了一个骑灰马的龙骑兵紧追下去。途中遇见一个灌木丛；那匹骏马驮着他飞跃而过，差点把尼古拉掀下马鞍，眼看再有几秒钟就可以追上那个他选作目标的敌人。这个法国人根据其制服来看大概是个军官，他在灰色马上弯着腰，用佩刀赶马飞奔。顷刻之间，罗斯托夫的战马的前胸已碰着那个军官的马屁股，差点把它撞个四脚朝天，就在同一瞬间，罗斯托夫自己也不知为什么，就举起佩刀，照着那法国人劈去。

就在他这样做的同一刹那，罗斯托夫全身劲头忽然消失了。那军官倒下了，与其说他是由于刀劈，不如说是由于马的冲撞和恐惧，他的肘弯上方只受了一点轻伤。罗斯托夫勒住马，以目光察看自己的敌人，好看看他战胜了谁。那法军龙骑兵军官以一只脚在地上跳着，另一只脚挂在马蹬上了。他吓得眯缝着眼睛，好像等待随时可能的新的打击，皱着眉头，带着恐怖的表情从下往上望着罗斯托夫。他的脸色苍白，沾满泥泞，头发淡黄色，年轻，下巴上有个酒窝，一双浅蓝色的眼睛，完全不像战场上含有敌意的脸，而是最平常和最普通的脸。在罗斯托夫还未决定拿他怎么办之前，这军官就喊道：“Je　me　rends！”①他慌里慌张地想从马蹬里抽出脚来，但是抽不出来，一对惊慌的蓝眼睛，不停地望着罗斯托夫。驰过来的骠骑兵帮他把脚抽出来并把他扶到马鞍上，骠骑兵们从四方收容龙骑兵；有一个受了伤，满脸是鲜血，仍不愿放弃自己的马；另一个抱着骠骑兵坐在马屁股上；第三个由骠骑兵扶着才爬上马背。前方法军步兵一面奔跑，一面射击。骠骑兵们赶忙带着自己的俘虏驰向后方，罗斯托夫同别人一起驰向后方，一种不愉快的感觉使他胸中发闷。他俘虏这个军官并劈他一刀所引起的某种模糊的、混乱的感觉，他无论怎样也不能向自己解释。

①法语：我投降。

奥斯特曼·托尔斯泰伯爵迎着回来的骠骑兵，他叫来罗斯托夫，感谢他并说他将向皇帝报告他的英勇行为，申请授予他圣乔治十字勋章。当人们叫罗斯托夫去见奥斯特曼伯爵时，他记起自己不待命令就发起冲锋，现在长官传唤他，一定是为他的擅自行为而处罚他。所以奥斯特曼一番赞扬的话和许诺给他奖赏，本应使罗斯托夫受宠若惊；但是仍然有一种不愉快的模糊的感觉使他恶心。“是什么使我痛苦不堪呢？”他问着自己离开了将军。“是伊林吗？不，他安然无恙。是我做过什么丢脸的事吗？不，没有那回事！”某件类似后悔的事折磨着他。“是的，是的，是为那个下巴有一个小酒窝的法国军官，我清楚地记得，我举起手臂又停住了。”

罗斯托夫看见被押走的俘虏，于是驰到他们后面，要看看自己那位下巴有酒窝的法国人。他穿着古怪的制服坐在骠骑兵的焦躁不安的马上，神色不安地望着四周。他手臂上的伤几乎不算是伤。他向罗斯托夫装出笑脸、向他挥手致意。罗斯托夫就是这样也觉得不好意思，有点害臊。

当天和第二天，罗斯托夫的朋友和同事们发现他闷闷不乐，他不是寂寞，不是生气，而是默默不语，若有所思，神情专注。他毫无兴致地喝酒，尽量一个人躲起来思索着什么。

罗斯托夫老在想那使他惊奇的辉煌的战功，赏给他圣乔治十字勋章，甚至获得勇士的名声——他有一点弄不明白。

“如此看来，他们比我们还害怕！”他想。“这样就称为英雄气概吗？难道我这样做就是为祖国吗？那个生个小酒窝和蓝眼睛的人有什么罪呢？他多恐惧啊！他认为我会杀死他。为什么我要杀他呢？我的手发抖了。可他们授给我圣乔治十字勋章，我一点也不明白！”

可是，当尼古拉为这些问题操心，怎么也不能给自己一个明确的答案，是什么折磨着他时，服役的幸运车轮又转到他身上。在奥斯特罗夫纳战役后，他首先被提升了，把一个营的骠骑兵交给他指挥。当需要勇敢军官的时候，人们把委任给了他。