Swaying from side to side on his long, thin legs in his fluttering dressing gown, this lunatic was running impetuously, his gaze fixed on Rostopchin, shouting something in a hoarse voice and making signs to him to stop.
One was shouting, Get on!
The French were evidently firing and shouting at him.
I couldn't help laughing, for at that very moment Viney was shouting at the top of her voice:
But the firing and shouting did not relate to them.