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Chapter 19

           “CantheybeFrench?”HelookedattheapproachingFrenchmen,andthoughbutamomentbeforehehadbeengallopingtogetatthemandhackthemtopieces,theirproximitynowseemedsoawfulthathecouldnotbelievehiseyes.“Whoarethey?Whyaretheyrunning?Cantheybecomingatme?Andwhy?Tokillme?Mewhomeveryoneissofondof?”Herememberedhismother’sloveforhim,andhisfamily’s,andhisfriends’,andtheenemy’sintentiontokillhimseemedimpossible.“Butperhapstheymaydoit!”Formorethantensecondshestoodnotmovingfromthespotorrealizingthesituation.TheforemostFrenchman,theonewiththehookednose,wasalreadysoclosethattheexpressionofhisfacecouldbeseen.Andtheexcited,alienfaceofthatman,hisbayonethangingdown,holdinghisbreath,andrunningsolightly,frightenedRostóv.Heseizedhispistoland,insteadoffiringit,flungitattheFrenchmanandranwithallhismighttowardthebushes.HedidnotnowrunwiththefeelingofdoubtandconflictwithwhichhehadtroddentheEnnsbridge,butwiththefeelingofaharefleeingfromthehounds.Onesinglesentiment,thatoffearforhisyoungandhappylife,possessedhiswholebeing.Rapidlyleapingthefurrows,hefledacrossthefieldwiththeimpetuosityheusedtoshowatcatchplay,nowandthenturninghisgood-natured,pale,youngfacetolookback.Ashudderofterrorwentthroughhim:“No,betternotlook,”hethought,buthavingreachedthebushesheglancedroundoncemore

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