The hotel sofa was not remarkable for its softness; when Ferdinand leant his head against its arm, he was reminded of his midnight drives home in his carriage. For a man in a sitting posture that was extremely comfortable, but when you lay down it was as uncomfortable as this sofa. He had the sensation of driving home in it--of the gentle jostling, the clatter of the horses' hoofs: it is midnight; the moon, standing high in the sky, lights up the road. The carriage quivers and then stops. "What is the matter?" asks Ferdinand in his dream. "Gosławski's arm has been torn off," answers a low voice. "Is that the man with the pretty wife?" "How sharp he is!" says the same low voice. "Sharp? Who is sharp?" says Ferdinand to himself, turning round on the sofa, away from the scene. But the phantoms do not vanish; he again sees the crowd of men round the stretcher, and the wounded man, his arm in blood-soaked wrappings laid on his chest. He can even see the foreshortening of the shadows on the road. "How the man suffers!" whispers Ferdinand. "And he must die--must die!" He has the sensation of being the man on the stretcher, tortured with pain, his arm shattered, and of seeing his own face in the cold, cruel moonlight. Whatever had happened? Champagne had never had this effect on him before. Something entirely new was overpowering, oppressing him--tearing his heart--boring into his brain; he felt as if he must shout, run away, hide somewhere. Ferdinand jumped up. Dusk was filling the room. "What the devil! I seem to be afraid ... afraid!... I?..." With difficulty he found the matches, scattered them on the floor, picked one up, struck it--it went out--struck another, and lighted the candle. He looked at himself in the glass; his face was ashen, and there were dark circles round his eyes; his pupils were much enlarged. "Am I afraid?" he repeated. The candle was trembling in his hand. "If the pistol is going to jump like that to-morrow, I shall be in a nice mess!" he thought. He looked out of the window. There was Zapora, still sitting at his desk on the ground floor across the street, writing quietly and evenly. The sight made Ferdinand shake off his nervousness. His vivacious temperament got the better of the phantoms. "Go on writing, my dear, and I will put the full-stop to it!" Steps approached in the corridor, and there was a knock at the door. "Get up, Ferdinand, we are ready for the bout!" called a familiar voice. Ferdinand was himself again. If he had had to jump into a precipice bristling with bayonets, he would not have flinched. When he opened the door to his friend he greeted him with a hearty laugh. He laughed at his momentary nervousness, at the phantoms, at the question: "Am I afraid?" No, he was not afraid. He felt again the strength of a lion and the reckless courage of youth, which fears no danger and has no limits.