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"Come along, our Matvevna!" he said to himself. "Matvevna" * was

the name his fancy gave to the farthest gun of the battery, which

was large and of an old pattern. The French swarming round their

guns seemed to him like ants. In that world, the handsome

drunkard Number One of the second gun's crew was "uncle"; Tushin

looked at him more often than at anyone else and took delight in

his every movement. The sound of musketry at the foot of the

hill, now diminishing, now increasing, seemed like someone's

breathing. He listened intently to the ebb and flow of these

sounds.

* Daughter of Matthew.

"Ah! Breathing again, breathing!" he muttered to himself.

He imagined himself as an enormously tall, powerful man who was

throwing cannon balls at the French with both hands.

"Now then, Matvevna, dear old lady, don't let me down!" he was

saying as he moved from the gun, when a strange, unfamiliar voice

called above his head: "Captain Tushin! Captain!"