"Then there is no escape. All this is immensely foolish, but there is no escape!" Pan Stanislav did not answer, and they walked on in silence. Pan Yamish began to speak again,-- "But I hear that Marynia Plavitski has received some inheritance?" "She has, but a small one." "And the old man?" "He is angry that the whole property is not left to him." Yamish tapped his forehead with his glove. "He has a little something here, that Plavitski;" then, looking around, he said, "Somehow we are going far." "We shall be on the ground in a moment." And they went on. The sun had risen above the undergrowth; from the trees there fell bluish shadows on the snow; but more and more light was coming into the forest every instant. The crows and daws, hidden somewhere among the tree-tops, shook the snow, dry as down, and it fell without noise to the ground, forming under the trees little pointed piles. Everywhere there was immense silence and rest. Men alone were disturbing it to shoot at each other. They halted at last on the edge of the forest where it was clean. Then Yamish's short discourse concerning the superiority of peace over war was listened to by Mashko and Gantovski with ears hidden by fur collars. When Kresovski loaded the pistols, each made his choice; and the two, throwing their furs aside, stood opposite each other with the barrels of their weapons turned upward. Gantovski breathed hurriedly; his face was red, and his mustaches were in icicles. From his whole posture and face it was clear that the affair disconcerted him greatly; that through shame and force of will he controlled himself; and that, had he followed the natural bent of his feelings, he would have sprung at his opponent and smashed him with the butt of his pistol, or even with his fist. Mashko, who previously had feigned not to see his opponent, looked at him now with a face full of hatred, stubbornness, and contempt. His cheeks were all in spots. He mastered himself more, however, than Gantovski; and, dressed in a long frock-coat, with a high hat on his head, with his long side-whiskers, he seemed too stiff, too much like an actor playing the rôle of a duelling gentleman. "He will shoot 'the bear' like a dog," thought Pan Stanislav. The words of command were heard, and two shots shook the forest stillness. Mashko turned then to Kresovski, and said coolly,-- "I beg to load the pistols." But at the same moment at his feet appeared a spot of blood on the snow. "You are wounded," said the doctor, approaching quickly. "Perhaps; load the pistols, I beg." At that moment he staggered, for he was wounded really. The ball had carried away the very point of his kneepan. The duel was interrupted; but Gantovski remained some time yet on the spot with staring eyes, astonished at what had happened. After the first examination of the wound he approached, however, pushed forward by Yamish, and said as awkwardly as sincerely,--