was at once at my ease. Meanwhile, our seconds were fixing the barrier,
measuring out the paces, loading the pistols. Koloberdyaev did most;
Bizmyonkov rather watched him. It was a magnificent day--as fine as the
day of that ever-memorable walk. The thick blue of the sky peeped, as
then, through the golden green of the leaves. Their lisping seemed to
mock me. The prince went on smoking his cigar, leaning with his
shoulder against the trunk of a young lime-tree....

'Kindly take your places, gentlemen; ready,' Koloberdyaev pronounced at
last, handing us pistols.

The prince walked a few steps away, stood still, and, turning his head,
asked me over his shoulder, 'You still refuse to take back your words,
then?'

I tried to answer him; but my voice failed me, and I had to content
myself with a contemptuous wave of the hand. The prince smiled again,
and took up his position in his place. We began to approach one
another. I raised my pistol, was about to aim at my enemy's chest--but
suddenly tilted it up, as though some one had given my elbow a shove,
and fired. The prince tottered, and put his left hand to his left
temple--a thread of blood was flowing down his cheek from under the
white leather glove, Bizmyonkov rushed up to him.

'It's all right,' he said, taking off his cap, which the bullet had
pierced; 'since it's in the head, and I've not fallen, it must be a
mere scratch.'

He calmly pulled a cambric handkerchief out of his pocket, and put it
to his blood-stained curls.