Again there is a man lying by the fire.
—What's the matter with him?
—Everything passes through him.
—That's it, sir. Blood.
The peasant lifts his head, and says sadly in a weak voice, with a deathly sadness,
—My blood is flowing out of me. It flows out. I'm cold inside me. All my blood is going out of me.
And calmly, just as if he were not there, the people around say:
—Yes, that's so, he passes blood. He's no strength left—and look at him! That's the sort of state he's in.
And there is a chorus:
—Oh sir, haven't you any sort of medicine with you?
—Sir! Pan! Master! Stop my blood from flowing away!
—Medicine! Medicine! Medicine! Haven't you any medicine?