With difficulty he found the matches, scattered them on the floor, picked one up, struck it—it went out—struck another, and lighted the candle.
He looked at himself in the glass; his face was ashen, and there were dark circles round his eyes; his pupils were much enlarged.
"Am I afraid?" he repeated.
The candle was trembling in his hand.
"If the pistol is going to jump like that to-morrow, I shall be in a nice mess!" he thought.
He looked out of the window. There was Zapora, still sitting at his desk on the ground floor across the street, writing quietly and evenly. The sight made Ferdinand shake off his nervousness. His vivacious temperament got the better of the phantoms.
"Go on writing, my dear, and I will put the full-stop to it!"
Steps approached in the corridor, and there was a knock at the door.
"Get up, Ferdinand, we are ready for the bout!" called a familiar voice.
Ferdinand was himself again. If he had had to jump into a precipice bristling with bayonets, he would not have flinched. When he opened the door to his friend he greeted him with a hearty laugh. He laughed at his momentary nervousness, at the phantoms, at the question: "Am I afraid?"