The time of waiting did not seem particularly disagreeable to Sanin; he walked up and down the path, listened to the birds singing, watched the dragonflies in their flight, and like the majority of Russians in similar circumstances, tried not to think. He only once dropped into reflection; he came across a young lime-tree, broken down, in all probability by the squall of the previous night. It was unmistakably dying … all the leaves on it were dead. “What is it? an omen?” was the thought that flashed across his mind; but he promptly began whistling, leaped over the very tree, and paced up and down the path. As for Pantaleone, he was grumbling, abusing the Germans, sighing and moaning, rubbing first his back and then his knees. He even yawned from agitation, which gave a very comic expression to his tiny shrivelled-up face. Sanin could scarcely help laughing when he looked at him. They heard, at last, the rolling of wheels along the soft road. “It’s they!” said Pantaleone, and he was on the alert and drew himself up, not without a momentary nervous shiver, which he made haste, however, to cover with the ejaculation “B-r-r!” and the remark that the morning was rather fresh. A heavy dew drenched the grass and leaves, but the sultry heat penetrated even into the wood. Both the officers quickly made their appearance under its arched avenues; they were accompanied by a little thick-set man, with a phlegmatic, almost sleepy, expression of face—the army doctor. He carried in one hand an earthenware pitcher of water—to be ready for any emergency; a satchel with surgical instruments and bandages hung on his left shoulder. It was obvious that he was thoroughly used to such excursions; they constituted one of the sources of his income; each duel yielded him eight gold crowns—four from each of the combatants. Herr von Richter carried a case of pistols, Herr von Dönhof—probably considering it the thing—was swinging in his hand a little cane. “Pantaleone!” Sanin whispered to the old man; “if … if I’m killed—anything may happen—take out of my side pocket a paper—there’s a flower wrapped up in it—and give the paper to Signorina Gemma. Do you hear? You promise?” The old man looked dejectedly at him, and nodded his head affirmatively…. But God knows whether he understood what Sanin was asking him to do. The combatants and the seconds exchanged the customary bows; the doctor alone did not move as much as an eyelash; he sat down yawning on the grass, as much as to say, “I’m not here for expressions of chivalrous courtesy.” Herr von Richter proposed to Herr “Tshibadola” that he should select the place; Herr “Tshibadola” responded, moving his tongue with difficulty—“the wall” within him had completely given way again. “You act, my dear sir; I will watch….”