The Duellist
The carriage was brought to the door. Kister handed the major two letters, one for his mother, the other for Masha.
'What's this for?'
'Well, one can never tell . . .'
'Nonsense! we'll shoot him like a partridge . . .'
'Any way it's better . . .'
The major with vexation stuffed the two letters in the side pocket of his coat.
'Let us start.'
They set off. In a small copse, a mile and a half from the village of Kirilovo, Lutchkov was awaiting them with his former friend, the perfumed adjutant. It was lovely weather, the birds were twittering peacefully; not far from the copse a peasant was tilling the ground. While the seconds were marking out the distance, fixing the barrier, examining and loading the pistols, the opponents did not even glance at one another. . . . Kister walked to and fro with a careless air, swinging a flower he had gathered; Avdey stood motionless, with folded arms and scowling brow. The decisive moment arrived. 'Begin, gentlemen!' Kister went rapidly towards the barrier, but he had not gone five steps before Avdey fired, Kister started, made one more step forward, staggered. His head sank . . . His knees bent under him . . . He fell like a sack on the
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