"I am not afraid," answered Sonya`s voice, and along the path toward Nicholas came the crunching, whistling sound of Sonya`s feet in her thin shoes.

As if responding to them but with a different sort of merriment, the metallic sound of the bells reverberated high above and the hot rays of the sun bathed the top of the opposite slope with yet another sort of merriment. But beneath the slope, by the cart with the wounded near the panting little nag where Pierre stood, it was damp, somber, and sad.