Prince Andrew remembered the story of Suvorov giving his saber to Bagration in Italy, and the recollection was particularly pleasant at that moment.
Denisov sat down by the old ladies and, leaning on his saber and beating time with his foot, told them something funny and kept them amused, while he watched the young people dancing, Iogel with Natasha, his pride and his best pupil, were the first couple.
Three years later he convoked the Saber (parliament) at Uskiib to begin a codification of the laws and legal usages.
The past participle of verbs in er was formerly isdo (u t u s) in most cases; at present ido serves for all verbs in er and Cr, except some ten or twelve in which the participle has retained the Latin form accented on the radical: dicho, hecho, visto, &c. It ought to be added that the past participle in normal Castilian derives its theme not from the perfect, but from the infinitive: habido, sabido, from haber, saber, not from hubo, supo.
Certain forms of the conjugation of the verb differ from the Castilian: dar, esiar, haver, saber, poner readily form their imperfects and imperfect subjunctives like the regular verbs in ar and erhavieron (Cast.
The princess, picking up her dress, was taking her seat in the dark carriage, her husband was adjusting his saber; Prince Hippolyte, under pretense of helping, was in everyone's way.
Only those things he always kept with him remained in his room; a small box, a large canteen fitted with silver plate, two Turkish pistols and a saber--a present from his father who had brought it from the siege of Ochakov.
What a horse he will be! he thought with a smile, and holding up his saber, his spurs jingling, he ran up the steps of the porch.
Rostov, his eyes avoiding Denisov, began buttoning his coat, buckled on his saber, and put on his cap.
"Tell these devils, these fiends, to let me pass!" shouted Denisov evidently in a fit of rage, his coal-black eyes with their bloodshot whites glittering and rolling as he waved his sheathed saber in a small bare hand as red as his face.
I'll hack you with my saber! he shouted, actually drawing his saber from its scabbard and flourishing it.
The black, hairy, snub-nosed face of Vaska Denisov, and his whole short sturdy figure with the sinewy hairy hand and stumpy fingers in which he held the hilt of his naked saber, looked just as it usually did, especially toward evening when he had emptied his second bottle; he was only redder than usual.
He reined in his horse with the care of a skillful rider and, slightly bending over, disengaged his saber which had caught in his cloak.
Despite his desperate shouts that used to seem so terrible to the soldiers, despite his furious purple countenance distorted out of all likeness to his former self, and the flourishing of his saber, the soldiers all continued to run, talking, firing into the air, and disobeying orders.
He had on a shabby cadet jacket, decorated with a soldier's cross, equally shabby cadet's riding breeches lined with worn leather, and an officer's saber with a sword knot.
His hearers expected a story of how beside himself and all aflame with excitement, he had flown like a storm at the square, cut his way in, slashed right and left, how his saber had tasted flesh and he had fallen exhausted, and so on.
Natasha... sabretache... saber them...
"Is this your saber?" he shouted.
"Is this your saber?" asked Petya.
And after stumbling a few staggering steps right up to the saber, he sank on the snow beside it.
Denisov did not take his eyes off her and beat time with his saber in a way that clearly indicated that if he was not dancing it was because he would not and not because he could not.
Five minutes later, Denisov came into the hut, climbed with muddy boots on the bed, lit his pipe, furiously scattered his things about, took his leaded whip, buckled on his saber, and went out again.
Joseph, his valet, handed him his sabretache and saber, and they all went out into the vestibule.
The Cossack was sharpening the saber under the wagon.
"Ozheg-zheg, Ozheg-zheg..." hissed the saber against the whetstone, and suddenly Petya heard an harmonious orchestra playing some unknown, sweetly solemn hymn.
"Saber him!" the dragoon officer almost whispered.
At first Pierre did not realize what these men, who were dragging something out, were about; but seeing before him a Frenchman hitting a peasant with a blunt saber and trying to take from him a fox-fur coat, he vaguely understood that looting was going on there, but he had no time to dwell on that idea.
Please, my dear fellow, will you sharpen my saber for me?
With a solemn triumphal march there mingled a song, the drip from the trees, and the hissing of the saber, "Ozheg-zheg-zheg..." and again the horses jostled one another and neighed, not disturbing the choir but joining in it.
Petya shook himself, jumped up, took a ruble from his pocket and gave it to Likhachev; then he flourished the saber, tested it, and sheathed it.
It was an old-fashioned saber of a kind no longer in general use.
In another moment Rostov's horse dashed its breast against the hindquarters of the officer's horse, almost knocking it over, and at the same instant Rostov, without knowing why, raised his saber and struck the Frenchman with it.