“Sit down,” he said, “and I will dress that neck of yours, and then we can have supper.”
“It is but a scratch,” said Lykof, carelessly, as he unfastened his collar, revealing a gash near the collar-bone which had bled quite freely.
“A bungling stroke,” remarked Von Gaden, critically; “the villain is a poor swordsman.”
“Yes, fortunately,” laughed Lykof, “else I should not be alive to thank M. de Brousson for his timely interference.”
“The fellow must have been dogging your footsteps for some time,” I said, “for we had followed for quite a distance to see the outcome of the affair.”
“It may be that he has followed me all day,” Lykof replied. “I have been so absorbed in my own business that I had no thought of such a thing; and Michael was not with me. If he had been—” he laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
“There would have been short work,” I said; “at least, I should judge so from what I have observed.”
“He told me of his mistaken attack upon you, M. le Vicomte,” Lykof said with a keen glance, which made my face burn, “and I must apologize for him. The fellow has been infuriated by this villain Polotsky, and longs for his blood. I have no doubt that he will murder him in the end, and it will be no loss to the community.”
“No; that kind of vermin is best removed,” Von Gaden rejoined, as he adjusted the plaster on Lykof’s wound, and I watched with interest the man’s wonderful dexterity.
“What will you do with Polotsky now?” I inquired, not a little curious as to their intentions, for I saw that there was already an understanding between doctor and patient from which I was excluded.