"Who is wounded?" he asked.
"Ferdinand."
The old man did not comprehend.
"Has he broken his leg or his neck, or what do you mean?"
"It is a bullet wound."
"A bullet? How?"
"He has had a duel."
The mill-owner's red face now flushed the colour of brick. He threw down his hat in the portico and hurried through the open door. He did not ask who had wounded his son. What did that matter?
He found the servants and another stranger in the room. Pushing them aside, he stepped up to where Ferdinand was lying on the couch. The wounded man was without coat or waistcoat, and his face was so dreadfully changed that at first the father scarcely recognized his own son. The doctor was sitting at the head of the couch. Adler stared, and then fell upon a chair, leant forward with his hands on his knees, and asked in a stifled voice:
"What have you been doing, you scamp?"