The remnants of the first company were running in to the wheat, lying down.
The second company, beaten back, flung themselves on the ground. ' The General sprang from the well and ran lightly across the field.
He was seen by the troops and managed to get them on to their feet again, with short cries of:
"For shame, gentlemen, for shame!"
He got them to charge again but the firing was so severe, and men fell in such numbers, that they once more flung themselves down.... Could it be that the battle was lost?
At nine a.m. the booming of Drozdovsky's guns was heard from the west.
An armoured car made its appearance in the field, blundering forward like a grey tortoise.
Drozdovsky's troops went on with their attack systematically and without haste.
Kazanovich's lines rose from the ground a third time.
The Volunteers were now advancing along a wide semicircular front.
It seemed impossible that the Bolsheviks would be able to withstand such an onslaught.
A horseman appeared between the Bolshevik trenches, galloping furiously up and down, and flourishing a gleaming blade.
Tearing up to the top of a barrow, he pulled his horse up short.
He wore a crimson shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and threw back his head, shouting and waving his sword again.
And instantly a cavalry lava swooped down upon the attacking lines of Drozdovsky's men.
Their short-legged, vicious ponies hugged the ground in their mad rush.
The firing ceased.
The whistling of blades, shrieks, the tramping of hoofs, could be heard far and wide.
The crimson-shirted horseman tore down the side of the barrow, giving his horse its head as he galloped past.
A cloud of black dust arose, veiling the battlefield.
The troops of Drozdovsky and Markov, unable to withstand the cavalry charge, were in flight.
They came to a halt beside the brook Kirpeli, where they entrenched.
Ivan Ilyich Telegin, knitting his brows and shivering with pain, bandaged his head with gauze from his first-aid packet.
It was a mere scratch, the bone had not been touched, but the pain was intense—he felt as if his whole head was coming unscrewed.
He was so exhausted by his efforts, that for a long time after the bandaging he lay motionless on his back in the wheat.
It was strange to hear the grasshoppers fiddling peacefully away as if nothing had happened.
Grasshoppers hidden in the cracks of the earth, the great stars in the southern night sky, and a few bearded ears of wheat suspended motionless between his eyes and the sky—this was the end of all the bloody turmoil, the shrieks, the' metallic clang of battle.
A short time ago a wounded man had been moaning somewhere near, now even he had fallen silent.
What a wonderful thing silence could be!
The burning pain in his head was getting less, as if there were healing in the solemn majesty of night.
Vivid snatches of the day, all torn to fragments by artillery fire, the yells issuing from mouths opening like the maws of wild beasts, and bursts of furious hate, when one ran and ran, seeing nothing but the tip of one's bayonet and the pale face of the man firing at one.
But these memories penetrated the brain so painfully, giving such a sudden extra twist to the skull, that Ivan Ilyich could not repress a groan, and tried frantically to think of something else.
But what else was there for him to think about?
Either these terrible fragments of endless occurrences, which the mind could never quite grasp—revolution, war—or that distant dream of happiness and Dasha, on which he had turned the key.
He began thinking about her (truth to tell he had never stopped thinking about her) her utter defencelessness: quite alone, so unpractical, the victim of her own illusions... her eyes so stern, but her heart fluttering and frightened like a bird's, a child, just a child....
Ivan Ilyich clutched at a sod of warm earth with his outflung hand.
His eyelids closed.
She had parted with him—for ever, she was sure!
Little fool! Who's afraid of your stern eyes? And who will ever love you more truly than I? Little fool! What injuries you will meet with... bitter, unforgettable....
Tears stole from beneath the eyelashes of Ivan Ilyich —he was weak from his wound.
A grasshopper began chirping right at his ear.
The bloody, trampled field was silvery in the starlight.
All was veiled by night.... Raising himself, Ivan. Ilyich sat up, clasping his knees with his arms.
It was all like a dream, like a return to childhood.
His heart filled with pity and tears. He got up and started walking, trying not to let his steps jolt his head.
Korenovskaya was about half-a-mile away.
Here and there the light from bonfires in the village could be seen.
Closer to him, in a hollow, a clear tongue of flame danced over the ground.
Suddenly feeling hungry and thirsty, Ivan Ilyich moved in the direction of the fire.
Dark figures were staggering towards it from all over the field—some were slightly wounded, some were stragglers from a decimated division, some were propelling prisoners in front of them.