Officer could have done in his position, he was in a state of mind akin to the delirium of fever or the intoxication of a drunken man. The deafening sound of his own guns on all sides, the hiss and thud of the enemy's shells, the sight of the perspiring, flushed gunners hurrying about the cannons, the sight of the blood of men and horses, and of the puffs of smoke from the enemy on the opposite side always followed by a cannon-ball that flew across and hit the earth, a man, a horse, or a cannon all these images made up for him a fantastic world of his own, in which he found enjoyment at the moment.

The enemy's cannons in his fancy were not video door camera cannons, but pipes from which an invisible smoker blew puffs of smoke at intervals. There he's puffing away again, Tushin murmured to himself as a cloud of smoke rolled downhill, and was borne off by the wind in a wreath to the left. Now, your ballthrow it back.

What is it, your honour? asked a gunner who stood near him, and heard him muttering something. Nothing, a grenade he answered. Now for it, our Matvyevna, he said to himself. Matvyevna was the name his fancy gave to the big cannon, cast in an old-fashioned mould, that stood at the end. The French seemed to be ants swarming about their cannons. The handsome, drunken soldier, number video door intercom

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