They knew that their shots were perfectly useless, but they were firing for the fun of retorting, hoping at the same time that one of their chance shots might achieve a miracle; but the only miracle was that the shooters did not kill each other with their precipitate and ineffectual fire.

As it was, a few passers-by did fall, wounded by balls from unknown sources.
Argensola would tear from street to street following the evolutions of the inimical bird, trying to guess where its projectiles would fall, anxious to be the first to reach the bombarded house, excited by the shots that were answering from below.

And to think that he had no gun like those khaki-clad Englishmen or those Belgians in barrick cap, with tassel over the front!.

.

.