Ryabovitch looked indifferently before and behind, at the backs of heads and at faces; at any other time he would have been half asleep, but now he was entirely absorbed in his new agreeable thoughts.  At first when the brigade was setting off on the march he tried to persuade himself that the incident of the kiss could only be interesting as a mysterious little adventure, that it was in reality trivial, and to think of it seriously, to say the least of it, was stupid; but now he bade farewell to logic and gave himself up to dreams. . . .  At one moment he imagined himself in Von Rabbek’s drawing-room beside a girl who was like the young lady in lilac and the fair girl in black; then he would close his eyes and see himself with another, entirely unknown girl, whose features were very vague.  In his imagination he talked, caressed her, leaned on her shoulder, pictured war, separation, then meeting again, supper with his wife, children. . . .

“Brakes on!” the word of command rang out every time they went downhill.

He, too, shouted “Brakes on!” and was afraid this shout would disturb his reverie and bring him back to reality. . . .

As they passed by some landowner’s estate Ryabovitch looked over the fence into the garden.  A long avenue, straight as a ruler, strewn with yellow sand and bordered with young birch-trees, met his eyes. . . .  With the eagerness of a man given up to dreaming, he pictured to himself little feminine feet tripping along yellow sand, and quite unexpectedly had a clear vision in his imagination of the girl who had kissed him and whom he had succeeded in picturing to himself the evening before at supper.  This image remained in his brain and did not desert him again.

At midday there was a shout in the rear near the string of wagons: 

“Easy!  Eyes to the left!  Officers!”

The general of the brigade drove by in a carriage with a pair of white horses.  He stopped near the second battery, and shouted something which no one understood.  Several officers, among them Ryabovitch, galloped up to them.

“Well?” asked the general, blinking his red eyes.  “Are there any sick?”

Receiving an answer, the general, a little skinny man, chewed, thought for a moment and said, addressing one of the officers: 

“One of your drivers of the third cannon has taken off his leg-guard and hung it on the fore part of the cannon, the rascal.  Reprimand him.”

He raised his eyes to Ryabovitch and went on: 

“It seems to me your front strap is too long.”

Making a few other tedious remarks, the general looked at Lobytko and grinned.

“You look very melancholy today, Lieutenant Lobytko,” he said.  “Are you pining for Madame Lopuhov?  Eh?  Gentlemen, he is pining for Madame Lopuhov.”

The lady in question was a very stout and tall person who had long passed her fortieth year.  The general, who had a predilection for solid ladies, whatever their ages, suspected a similar taste in his officers.  The officers smiled respectfully.  The general, delighted at having said something very amusing and biting, laughed loudly, touched his coachman’s back, and saluted.  The carriage rolled on. . . .