"Yes, your honor," the soldier replied complacently, and rolling his eyes more than ever he drew himself up still straighter, but did not move.

"No, it's impossible to do anything here," thought Rostov, lowering his eyes, and he was going out, but became aware of an intense look fixed on him on his right, and he turned.

Close to the corner, on an overcoat, sat an old, unshaven, gray-bearded soldier as thin as a skeleton, with a stern sallow face and eyes intently fixed on Rostov.

The man's neighbor on one side whispered something to him, pointing at Rostov, who noticed that the old man wanted to speak to him.

He drew nearer and saw that the old man had only one leg bent under him, the other had been amputated above the knee.