“And then it healed up?” said Olénin, not even laughing, so heavy was his heart. “It healed up, but the bullet is still there. Just feel it!” And lifting his shirt he showed his powerful back, where just near the bone a bullet could be felt and rolled about. “Feel how it rolls,” he said, evidently amusing himself with the bullet as with a toy. “There now, it has rolled to the back.” “And Lukáshka, will he recover?” asked Olénin. “Heaven only knows! There’s no doctor. They’ve gone for one.” “Where will they get one? From Gróznoe?” asked Olénin. “No, my lad. Were I the Tsar I’d have hung all your Russian doctors long ago. Cutting is all they know! There’s our Cossack Bakláshka, no longer a real man now that they’ve cut off his leg! That shows they’re fools. What’s Bakláshka good for now? No, my lad, in the mountains there are real doctors. There was my chum, Vórchik, he was on an expedition and was wounded just here in the chest. Well, your doctors gave him up, but one of theirs came from the mountains and cured him! They understand herbs, my lad!” “Come, stop talking rubbish,” said Olénin. “I’d better send a doctor from head-quarters.” “Rubbish!” the old man said mockingly. “Fool, fool! Rubbish. You’ll send a doctor!—If yours cured people, Cossacks and Chéchens would go to you for treatment, but as it is your officers and colonels send to the mountains for doctors. Yours are all humbugs, all humbugs.” Olénin did not answer. He agreed only too fully that all was humbug in the world in which he had lived and to which he was now returning. “How is Lukáshka? You’ve been to see him?” he asked.