anything else. Piotr! come here, Piotr! where have you got to?'
'That's all nonsense.... I need no one's aid,' Pavel Petrovitch declared jerkily, 'and ... we must ... again ...' He tried to pull at his moustaches, but his hand failed him, his eyes grew dim, and he lost consciousness.
'Here's a pretty pass! A fainting fit! What next!' Bazarov cried unconsciously, as he laid Pavel Petrovitch on the grass. 'Let's have a look what's wrong.' He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped away the blood, and began feeling round the wound.... 'The bone's not touched,' he muttered through his teeth; 'the ball didn't go deep; one muscle, vastus externus, grazed. He'll be dancing about in three weeks!... And to faint! Oh, these nervous people, how I hate them! My word, what a delicate skin!'
'Is he killed?' the quaking voice of Piotr came rustling behind his back.
Bazarov looked round. 'Go for some water as quick as you can, my good fellow, and he'll outlive us yet.'
But the modern servant seemed not to understand his words, and he did not stir. Pavel Petrovitch slowly opened his eyes. 'He will die!' whispered Piotr, and he began crossing himself.
