From the next room entered Nikolay with a bandaged hand, and the doctor, Ivan Danilovich, all disheveled, his hair standing on end like the spines of a hedgehog. He quickly stepped to Ivan, bent over him, and said:
"Water, Sofya Ivanovich, more water, clean linen strips, and cotton."
The mother walked toward the kitchen; but Nikolay took her by the arm with his left hand, and led her into the dining room.
"He didn't speak to you; he was speaking to Sofya. You've had enough suffering, my dear woman, haven't you?"
The mother met Nikolay's fixed, sympathetic glance, and, pressing his head, exclaimed with a groan she could not restrain:
"Oh, my darling, how fearful it was! They mowed the comrades down! They mowed them down!"
"I saw it," said Nikolay, giving her a glass of wine, and nodding his head. "Both sides grew a little heated. But don't be uneasy; they used the flats of their swords, and it seems only one was seriously wounded. I saw him struck, and I myself carried him out of the crowd."
His face and voice, and the warmth and brightness of the room quieted Vlasova. Looking gratefully at him, she asked:
"Did they hit you, too?"
"It seems to me that I myself through carelessness knocked my hand against something and tore off the skin. Drink some tea. The weather is cold and you're dressed lightly."