"Very good,"—retorted Vasíly:—"where is your sword?"
"Eróshka!"—shouted Pável Afanásievitch.
A man entered.
"Get my sword—yonder—thou knowest where it is—in the garret .... and be quick about it...."
Eróshka withdrew. Pável Afanásievitch suddenly turned extremely pale, hastily took off his dressing-gown, put on a kaftan of a reddish hue with large strass buttons .... wound a neckcloth round his neck.... Vasíly watched him, and examined the fingers of his right hand.
"So how is it to be? Are we to fight, Pável Afanásievitch?"
"If we must fight, we must,"—returned Rogatchyóff, hastily buttoning his waistcoat.
"Hey, Pável Afanásievitch, heed my advice: marry .... why shouldst thou not?... But I, believe me ...."
"No, Vasíly Ivánovitch,"—Rogatchyóff interrupted him. "You will either kill me or maim me, I know; but I have no intention of losing my honour; if I must die, I will."