Placing the bottle on the window sill
where he could reach it easily,
Dolokhov climbed carefully and slowly
through the window and lowered his legs.
Pressing against both sides of the window,
he adjusted himself on his seat, lowered his hands,
moved a little to the right and then to the left,
and took up the bottle. Anatole brought
two candles and placed them on the window sill,
though it was already quite light.
Dolokhov's back in his white shirt,
and his curly head, were lit up from both sides.
Everyone crowded to the window,
the Englishman in front. Pierre stood smiling but silent.
One man, older than the others present,
suddenly pushed forward with a scared and
angry look and wanted to seize hold of Dolokhov's shirt.
"I say, this is folly! He'll be killed,"
said this more sensible man.
Anatole stopped him.
"Don't touch him!
You'll startle him and then he'll be killed.
Eh?... What then?... Eh?"
Dolokhov turned round and,
again holding on with both hands,
arranged himself on his seat.
"If anyone comes meddling again," said he,
emitting the words separately through
his thin compressed lips,
"I will throw him down there. Now then!"