"I seemed to hear something, but no matter," was the thought which flashed through Bazarov's brain. Then he advanced another step, and, without aiming, pulled the trigger.
As he did so Paul Petrovitch gave a faint start, and clapped his hand to his thigh, down the white trouser-leg of which there began to trickle a thin stream of blood.
Bazarov threw aside his pistol and approached his antagonist.
"Are you wounded?" he inquired.
"Pray recall me to the mark," said Paul Petrovitch. "You have the right so to do, and we are merely wasting time. The conditions of the contest allow of a second shot apiece."
"Pardon me, that can be deferred," said Bazarov, catching hold of Paul Petrovitch, who was beginning to turn pale in the face. "I am no longer a duellist, but a doctor, and must examine your wound. Peter! Here! Where the devil has the man got to?"
"This is sheer folly," gasped Paul Petrovitch. "I need no help. Let us——" Yet, even as he tried to twirl his moustache, his arm fell to his side, his eyes closed, and he collapsed in a swoon.
"Something new!" involuntarily cried Bazarov as he laid his antagonist upon the grass. "A swoon! Let us see what is the matter with him."
Taking out his pocket-handkerchief, he wiped away the blood, and probed the neighbourhood of the wound.
"The bone is intact," he muttered. "Yes, and the bullet has merely pierced the flesh a little below the surface. Nothing but the musculus vastus externus is so much as touched. In three weeks' time we shall have him trotting about again. A swoon! Oh these men of nerves! What thin skins, to be sure!"