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"Yes, yes," muttered Bagration as if considering something, and

he rode past the limbers to the farthest cannon.

As he approached, a ringing shot issued from it deafening him and

his suite, and in the smoke that suddenly surrounded the gun they

could see the gunners who had seized it straining to roll it

quickly back to its former position. A huge, broad-shouldered

gunner, Number One, holding a mop, his legs far apart, sprang to

the wheel; while Number Two with a trembling hand placed a charge

in the cannon's mouth. The short, round-shouldered Captain

Tushin, stumbling over the tail of the gun carriage, moved

forward and, not noticing the general, looked out shading his

eyes with his small hand.

"Lift it two lines more and it will be just right," cried he in a

feeble voice to which he tried to impart a dashing note,

ill-suited to his weak figure. "Number Two!" he squeaked. "Fire,

Medvedev!"