PATIOMKIN. Psha! I know. You think if she once sets eyes on your face and your uniform your fortune is made. You think that if she could stand a man like me, with only one eye, and a cross eye at that, she must fall down at your feet at first sight, eh?
EDSTASTON [shocked and indignant]. I think nothing of the sort; and I'll trouble you not to repeat it. If I were a Russian subject and you made such a boast about my queen, I'd strike you across the face with my sword. [Patiomkin, with a yell of fury, rushes at him.] Hands off, you swine! [As Patiomkin, towering over him, attempts to seize him by the throat, Edstaston, who is a bit of a wrestler, adroitly backheels him. He falls, amazed, on his back.]
VARINKA [rushing out]. Help! Call the guard! The Englishman is murdering my uncle! Help! Help!
The guard and the Sergeant rush in. Edstaston draws a pair of small pistols from his boots, and points one at the Sergeant and the other at Patiomkin, who is sitting on the floor, somewhat sobered. The soldiers stand irresolute.
EDSTASTON. Stand off. [To Patiomkin.] Order them off, if you don't want a bullet through your silly head.
THE SERGEANT. Little Father, tell us what to do. Our lives are yours; but God knows you are not fit to die.
PATIOMKIN [absurdly self-possessed]. Get out.
THE SERGEANT. Little Father—
PATIOMKIN [roaring]. Get out. Get out, all of you. [They withdraw, much relieved at their escape from the pistol. Patiomkin attempts to rise, and rolls over.] Here! help me up, will you? Don't you see that I'm drunk and can't get up?
EDSTASTON [suspiciously]. You want to get hold of me.