Sarudine thought that this laughter was meant for him, and he winced, as if struck by a whip. Flushed with anger, and impelled as by some irresistible force, he left his companions, and rapidly approached Sanine. “What is it?” said the latter, suddenly becoming serious, while his eyes were fixed on the little riding-whip in Sarudine’s trembling hand. “You fool!” he thought to himself, as much in pity as in anger. “I should like a word with you,” began Sarudine, hoarsely. “Did you receive my challenge?” “Yes,” replied Sanine, intently watching every movement of the officer’s hands. “And you have decided to refuse … er … to act as any decent man is bound to act under the circumstances?” asked Sarudine. His voice was muffled, though loud in tone. To himself it seemed a strange one, as uncanny as the cold handle of the whip in his moist fingers. But he had not the strength to turn aside from the path that lay before him. Suddenly in the garden there seemed to be no air whatever. All the others stood still, perplexed, and expectant. “Oh! what the deuce—” began Ivanoff, endeavouring to interpose. “Of course I refuse,” said Sanine in a strangely calm voice, looking the other straight in the eyes. Sarudine breathed hard, as if he were lifting a heavy weight. “Once more I ask you—do you refuse?” His voice had a hard, metallic ring. Soloveitchik turned very pale. “Oh, dear! Oh! dear! He’s going to hit him!” he thought. “What … what is the matter?” he stammered, as he endeavoured to protect Sanine. Scarcely noticing him, Sarudine roughly pushed him aside. He saw nothing else in front of him but Sanine’s cold, calm eyes. “I have already told you so,” said Sanine, in the same tone. To Sarudine everything seemed whirling round. He heard behind him hasty footsteps, and the startled cry of a woman. With a sense of despair such as one who falls headlong into a chasm might feel, he clumsily and threateningly flourished the whip. At that same moment Sanine, using all his strength, struck him full in the face with his clenched fist. “Good!” exclaimed Ivanoff involuntarily. Sarudine’s head hung limply on one side. Something hot that stabbed his brain and eyes like sharp needles flooded his mouth and nose. “Ah!” he groaned, and sank helplessly forward on his hands, dropping the whip, while his cap fell off. He saw nothing, he heard nothing, being only conscious of the horrible disgrace, and of a dull burning pain in his eye. “Oh! God!” screamed Sina Karsavina, holding her head with both hands, and shutting her eyes tightly. Horrified and disgusted at the sight of Sarudine crouching there on all fours, Yourii, followed by Schafroff, rushed at Sanine. Volochine, losing his _pince-nez_ as he stumbled over a bush, ran away as fast as he could across the damp grass, so that his spotless trousers instantly became black up to the knees.