This proposal met with universal approbation.
"Yes, yes! let him swallow some of the stuff he has brought if it is not poison."
The doctor did not at all relish the idea of taking his own drugs, but he was careful not to betray his dislike, for he was in a decidedly ticklish position.
"Death comes from above," he calmly observed to the master. "Medicaments are no food for a healthy man, but, all the same, I will willingly take some of that bismuth powder to convince you all of the truth of my statement."
Then Thomas Bodza proceeded to pour a paper full of the stuff down the throat of the pinioned doctor.
The bystanders thronged around and gaped curiously at him, expecting every moment to see him drop down dead.
"Look how green his face is!" said Bodza, working with evil intent on the excited imagination of the mob. "Look how his eyes are staring, and how ghastly pale he is!"
"It is not my eyes that are staring, my worthy master, but your own," replied the doctor calmly. "Your face is pale, you are trembling. I tell you death comes from above and not from my powders."
Thomas Bodza felt so dizzy that he had to clutch hold of the arm of shaggy Hanák, who was standing by his side. Quite early that very morning he had felt a sort of numbing paralysis in all his limbs, a sort of griping cramp convulsing his inner parts, and an unspeakable fear had arisen within his soul, but the feeling had passed over, and he had put the thought of it away from him.
And now, again, that panic fear, which has no name, but beneath whose influence the bravest of men become pale, shaking spectres, overcame him, and he felt like one who is sensible of the approach of that one enemy against whom there is no defence.