"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.