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It's a mockery to give that to the hens; enough to make the hens laugh. . . . No, I will go to Bondarenko." When Yegorushka went back to the river a small camp fire was smoking on the bank. The waggoners were cooking their dinner. Styopka was standing in the smoke, stirring the cauldron with a big notched spoon.
Rostov in his cadet uniform, with a jerk to his horse, rode up to the porch, swung his leg over the saddle with a supple youthful movement, stood for a moment in the stirrup as if loathe to part from his horse, and at last sprang down and called to his orderly. "Ah, Bondarenko, dear friend!" said he to the hussar who rushed up headlong to the horse.
I might have been a hero: give me a regiment, gold epaulets, a trumpeter, but to march in the ranks with some wild Anton Bondarenko or the like, and feel that between me and him there was no difference at all that he might be killed or I might be killed all the same, that thought is maddening.
"Walk him up and down, my dear fellow," he continued, with that gay brotherly cordiality which goodhearted young people show to everyone when they are happy. "Yes, your excellency," answered the Ukrainian gaily, tossing his head. "Mind, walk him up and down well!" Another hussar also rushed toward the horse, but Bondarenko had already thrown the reins of the snaffle bridle over the horse's head.
"You always get younger, Bondarenko," he said to the rosy-checked, smart-looking quartermaster standing just before him, still youngish looking though doing his second term of service. It was three years since Vronsky had seen Serpuhovskoy.
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