PTER IX

Sofya was already at home when they reached the house. She met the
mother with a cigarette in her teeth. She was somewhat ruffled, but,
as usual, bold and assured of manner. Putting the wounded man on the
sofa, she deftly unbound his head, giving orders and screwing up her
eyes from the smoke of her cigarette.

"Ivan Danilovich!" she called out. "He's been brought here. You are
tired, Nilovna. You've had enough fright, haven't, you? Well, rest
now. Nikolay, quick, give Nilovna some tea and a glass of port."

Dizzied by her experience, the mother breathing heavily and feeling a
sickly pricking in her breast, said: "Don't bother about me."

But her entire anxious being begged for attention and kindnesses.

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."

She stretched out her hand for the cup and saw that her fingers were
stained with dark clots of blood. She instinctively dropped her hands
on her knees. Her skirt was damp. Ivan Danilovich came in in his
vest, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and in response to Nikolay's mute
question, said in his thin voice:

"The wound on his face is slight. His skull, however, is fr