He no longer felt the desire to ride at a gallop over the dead bodies of
the Russian soldiers. On the contrary, he picked his way among them
carefully, riding respectfully around the remains of every man who had
died with honor on that field of blood; and now and then he even crossed
himself and said: "Akh, that one ought to have lived! What a fine fellow
that one was! He must have fought with splendid courage. And I killed
him--why?"

The great conqueror never noticed that his heart was growing softer and
warmer, but so it was. He pitied his dead enemies at last, and then the
evil spirit went away from him, and left him in all respects like other
people.

The next day came the battle. Napoleonder led his forces, cloud upon
cloud, to the field of Borodino; but he was shaking as if in a chill.
His generals and field-marshals looked at him and were filled with
dismay.

"You ought to take a drink of vodka, Napoleonder," they say; "you don't
look like yourself."

When the Russian troops attacked the hordes of Napoleonder, on the field
of Borodino, the soldiers of the great conqueror at once gave way.

"It's a bad business, Napoleonder," the generals and field-marshals say.
"For some reason the Russians are fighting harder to-day than ever.
You'd better call out your dead men."

Napoleonder shouted at the top of his voice, "Bonaparty!"--six hundred
and sixty-six,--the number of the Beast. But, cry as he would, he only