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 Túshin 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.