"Quite."
"And I presume that you require no further explanations?"
"None whatsoever."
"Then kindly load these." Paul Petrovitch took from the box a brace of pistols.
"No. Do you load, while I measure the distance—my legs are longer than yours." This last Bazarov added with a dry smile. "Now, one, two, three——"
"I beg your pardon, sir," gasped Peter, who was trembling as with ague. "I beg your pardon, but might I move further away?"
"Four, five—— Certainly, my good fellow! Pray do so. You can go and stand behind that tree there, and stop your ears—provided that you do not also stop your eyes. Lastly, should either Monsieur Kirsanov or myself fall, you are to run and pick up the fallen. Six, seven, eight——" Bazarov halted. "That will do, I suppose?" he added to Paul Petrovitch. "Or would you prefer me to add another couple of paces?"
"Do as you please," the other replied as he rammed home the second of the two bullets.
"Then I will add those two paces." And Bazarov scratched a line in the soil with his toe. "Here is the mark. Apropos, how many paces is each of us to retire from our respective marks?"
"Ten, I presume," said Paul Petrovitch as he proffered Bazarov a brace of pistols. "Will you kindly make choice of these?"