A little man in Russian civilian clothes rode out from the ranks, and by his clothes and manner of speaking Pierre at once knew him to be a French salesman from one of the Moscow shops.
“He does not look like a common man,” said the interpreter, after a searching look at Pierre.
“Ah, he looks very much like an incendiary,” remarked the officer. “And ask him who he is,” he added.
“Who are you?” asked the interpreter in poor Russian. “You must answer the chief.”
“I will not tell you who I am. I am your prisoner—take me!” Pierre suddenly replied in French.
“Ah, ah!” muttered the officer with a frown. “Well then, march!”
A crowd had collected round the Uhlans. Nearest to Pierre stood the pockmarked peasant woman with the little girl, and when the patrol started she moved forward.
“Where are they taking you to, you poor dear?” said she. “And the little girl, the little girl, what am I to do with her if she’s not theirs?” said the woman.
“What does that woman want?” asked the officer.
Pierre was as if intoxicated. His elation increased at the sight of the little girl he had saved.