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. I stared at him, as though I were turned to stone, and did not stir. 'Go up to the barrier, if you please!' Koloberdyaev observed severely. I obeyed. 'Is the duel to go on?' he added, addressing Bizmyonkov. Bizmyonkov made him no answer. But the prince, without taking the handkerchief from the wound, without even giving himself the satisfaction of tormenting me at the barrier, replied with a smile. 'The duel is at an end,' and fired into the air. I was almost crying with rage and vexation. This man by his magnanimity had utterly trampled me in the mud; he had completely crushed me. I was on the point of making objections, on the point of demanding that he should fire at me. But he came up to me, and held out his hand. 'It's all forgotten between us, isn't it?' he said in a friendly voice. I looked at his blanched face, at the blood-stained handkerchief, and utterly confounded, put to shame, and annihilated, I pressed his hand. 'Gentlemen!' he added, turning to the seconds, 'everything, I hope, will be kept secret?' 'Of course!' cried Koloberdyaev; 'but, prince, allow me ...' And he himself bound up his head. The prince, as he went away, bowed to me once more. But Bizmyonkov did not even glance at me. Shattered--morally shattered--went homewards with Koloberdyaev. 'Why, what's the matter with you?' the cavalry captain asked me. 'Set your mind at rest; the wound's not serious. He'll be able to dance by to-morrow, if you like. Or are you sorry you didn't kill him? You're wrong, if you are; he's a first-rate fellow.' 'What business had he to spare me!' I muttered at last. 'Oh, so that's it!' the cavalry captain rejoined tranquilly... 'Ugh, you writing fellows are too much for me!' I don't know what put it into his head to consider me an author.