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From the deafening sounds of his own guns around him, the whistle

and thud of the enemy's cannon balls, from the flushed and

perspiring faces of the crew bustling round the guns, from the

sight of the blood of men and horses, from the little puffs of

smoke on the enemy's side (always followed by a ball flying past

and striking the earth, a man, a gun, a horse), from the sight of

all these things a fantastic world of his own had taken

possession of his brain and at that moment afforded him pleasure.

The enemy's guns were in his fancy not guns but pipes from which

occasional puffs were blown by an invisible smoker.

"There... he's puffing again," muttered Tushin to himself, as a

small cloud rose from the hill and was borne in a streak to the

left by the wind.

"Now look out for the ball... we'll throw it back."

"What do you want, your honor?" asked an artilleryman, standing

close by, who heard him muttering.

"Nothing... only a shell..." he answered.