"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 fractured,
but not very badly. He's a strong fellow, but he's lost a lot of
blood. We'll take him over to the hospital."
"Why? Let him stay here!" exclaimed Nikolay.
"To-day he may; and--well--to-morrow, too; but after that it'll be
more convenient for us to have him at the hospital.
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