"Well, fwiend? So you've smelt powdah!" shouted Vaska Denisov just above his ear.
"It's all over; but I am a coward—yes, a coward!" thought Rostov, and sighing deeply he took Rook, his horse, which stood resting one foot, from the orderly and began to mount.
"Was that grapeshot?" he asked Denisov.
"Yes and no mistake!" cried Denisov. "You worked like wegular bwicks and it's nasty work! An attack's pleasant work! Hacking away at the dogs! But this sortof thing is the very devil, with them shooting at you like a target."