their misery that they never turned their heads to look at our charge.
Soldiers!

"My horse pushed over one of them with his chest. The poor wretch had a
dragoon's blue cloak, all torn and scorched, hanging from his shoulders
and he didn't even put his hand out to snatch at my bridle and save
himself. He just went down. Our troopers were pointing and slashing;
well, and of course at first I myself... What would you have! An enemy's
an enemy. Yet a sort of sickening awe crept into my heart. There was no
tumult--only a low deep murmur dwelt over them interspersed with louder
cries and groans while that mob kept on pushing and surging past us,
sightless and without feeling. A smell of scorched rags and festering
wounds hung in the air. My horse staggered in the eddies of swaying
men. But it was like cutting down galvanized corpses that didn't care.
Invaders! Yes... God was already dealing with them.

"I touched my horse with the spurs to get clear. There was a sudden rush
and a sort of angry moan when our second squadron got into them on our
right. My horse plunged and somebody got hold of my leg. As I had no
mind to get pulled out of the saddle I gave a back-handed slash without
looking. I heard a cry and my leg was let go suddenly.

"Just then I caught sight of the subaltern of my troop at some little
distance from me. His name was Tomassov. That multitude of resurrected
bodies with glassy eyes was seething round his horse as if blind,
growling crazily. He was sitting erect in his saddle, not looking down
at them and sheathing his sword deliberately.

"This Tomassov, well, he had a beard. Of course we all had beards then.
Circumstances, lack of leisure, want of razors, too. No, seriously, we