“Well, deacon, that’s on the knees of the gods.”

“Faith without works is dead, but works without faith are worse still—­mere waste of time and nothing more.”

The doctor came into sight on the sea-front.  He saw the deacon and the zoologist, and went up to them.

“I believe everything is ready,” he said, breathing hard.  “Govorovsky and Boyko will be the seconds.  They will start at five o’clock in the morning.  How it has clouded over,” he said, looking at the sky.  “One can see nothing; there will be rain directly.”

“I hope you are coming with us?” said the zoologist.

“No, God preserve me; I’m worried enough as it is.  Ustimovitch is going instead of me.  I’ve spoken to him already.”

Far over the sea was a flash of lightning, followed by a hollow roll of thunder.

“How stifling it is before a storm!” said Von Koren.  “I bet you’ve been to Laevsky already and have been weeping on his bosom.”

“Why should I go to him?” answered the doctor in confusion.  “What next?”

Before sunset he had walked several times along the boulevard and the street in the hope of meeting Laevsky.  He was ashamed of his hastiness and the sudden outburst of friendliness which had followed it.  He wanted to apologise to Laevsky in a joking tone, to give him a good talking to, to soothe him and to tell him that the duel was a survival of mediaeval barbarism, but that Providence itself had brought them to the duel as a means of reconciliation; that the next day, both being splendid and highly intelligent people, they would, after exchanging shots, appreciate each other’s noble qualities and would become friends.  But he could not come across Laevsky.

“What should I go and see him for?” repeated Samoylenko.  “I did not insult him; he insulted me.  Tell me, please, why he attacked me.  What harm had I done him?  I go into the drawing-room, and, all of a sudden, without the least provocation:  ‘Spy!’ There’s a nice thing!  Tell me, how did it begin?  What did you say to him?”

“I told him his position was hopeless.  And I was right.  It is only honest men or scoundrels who can find an escape from any position, but one who wants to be at the same time an honest man and a scoundrel —­it is a hopeless position.  But it’s eleven o’clock, gentlemen, and we have to be up early to-morrow.”

There was a sudden gust of wind; it blew up the dust on the sea-front, whirled it round in eddies, with a howl that drowned the roar of the sea.

“A squall,” said the deacon.  “We must go in, our eyes are getting full of dust.”

As they went, Samoylenko sighed and, holding his hat, said: 

“I suppose I shan’t sleep to-night.”

“Don’t you agitate yourself,” laughed the zoologist.  “You can set your mind at rest; the duel will end in nothing.  Laevsky will magnanimously fire into the air—­he can do nothing else; and I daresay I shall not fire at all.  To be arrested and lose my time on Laevsky’s account—­the game’s not worth the candle.  By the way, what is the punishment for duelling?”