"Yes, yes, go on; he has been shot—he is dead—they have brought his body; you may tell me all, Michael."
"Oh, liubeemaya, not so bad as that; but he is hurt."
"What do you say—he is not dead?" cried Vera; she sprang from the bed upon which she lay. "Is he dying, is he mortally wounded, tell me quickly, has Stepan gone for a doctor?"
"But I did not say matters were so bad as that!" exclaimed old Michael, startled by her agitation. "The Count has, I think, been fighting—there is a rag bound round his wrist which is covered with blood and he is pale and faint, but——"
"But is he not shot—I thought—stop, Michael—go down and say that I will come immediately—I am not quite ready—I think I have been dreaming—do not tell the Count what I have said."
Old Michael went downstairs muttering and crossing himself. His beloved mistress could not be well if she dreamed in this fashion by daylight; what did it mean?
Vera dashed water upon her eyes and smoothed her ruffled hair; she stood a moment before her ikon and prayed; her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed; the expression of utter misery had left her face.
She found Sasha sitting dejected and pale, his arm bound up with a cloth which, as Michael said, was soaked in blood.
"What has happened—what is the matter? Are you hurt, Sasha?" she asked, assuming her usual air of composure, though her heart beat wildly with a variety of emotions.
"Vera, I am disgraced—doubly disgraced. We failed in our attempt—all my poor companions are dead—shot—I almost wish I had died with them—I feel dishonoured—shamed; see, I cannot look you in the face."