One single sentiment, that of fear for his young and happy life, possessed his whole being.
Rapidly leaping the furrows, he fled across the field with the impetuosity he used to show at catchplay, now and then turning his good-natured, pale, young face to look back.
A shudder of terror went through him: "No, better not look," he thought, but having reached the bushes he glanced round once more.
The French had fallen behind, and just as he looked round the first man changed his run to a walk and, turning, shouted something loudly to a comrade farther back.
Rostov paused.