was as good as a dead man; and I got up, half an hour before dawn, precisely of the same opinion.
It was a bitter morning, dark and cold and stormy. The east wind whistled through the pines in a way most dismal to hear. There was a shower of biting sleet just as we started which almost took pieces out of our faces. We all drank cups of steaming coffee and plenty of brandy with that, wrapping ourselves up just like men going out to sing carols. It had been agreed that, we should pick up the count as we drove through the village. Sir Nicolas and I were alone in the four-horse carriage which Mme. Pouzatòv had lent to us, on the understanding that we were driving into Novgorod to smooth down all the trouble. I felt like a man going to a funeral, and I don't think my master was much better,
"Well," said he, when we turned from the park out upon the bare and lonely high-road to Novgorod, "which of them, I wonder, will live to speak of this morning."
"Both, I hope, sir," said I, "Any way, they should do, if the general can't shoot any better than our man."
"’Tis not that at all," replied he, lighting a cigar, and shivering even in his thick coat—"’tis not that at all, but a very bloody business, this same Russian duelling. Ye'll understand that they fire when they please after the word is given, and that if either man takes a step forward toward the centre line, the other
