"And what think you of this, worshipful sirs, I tell you that he has actually boasted to the prefect that he has not only played bowls with the Emperor, but that he has constantly put on his Majesty's gold-embroidered coat and walked about in it. What say you to that?"
At this, the crowning accusation, Ráby could restrain his mirth no longer, and he burst out into a peal of hearty laughter which reverberated through the hall.
But at that sound, the speaker suddenly was silent, as if a shot had struck him, his mouth remained open, but his head sank back, and his eyes rolled till only the whites showed themselves; for an instant a spasm convulsed him, then he fell back—dead!
The laugh had killed him, as surely as if a bullet had been lodged in his heart.
They seized him and dragged him out into the fresh air, believing it was only a swoon, but in vain did they endeavour to restore life: it was all over with him.
When they were convinced that the notary was indeed dead, their despair knew no bounds.
But most of all was Mr. Zabváry quite desperate; wringing his hands, he wailed: "Kracskó, Kracskó, do not die till you have told me where my treasure is hidden. Wake up, I say, and tell me where you have put my little money-chest."
"But our big one," moaned the magistrate, "where's that? Haven't I always said that if only one man knew, and the devil carried him off, what should we do? Fetch a doctor, a surgeon, some of you. He must live till he tells us where the great treasure-chest is."
But no earthly aid could avail them for the man they called on lay there dead, and he had hidden the treasure so effectually that no one would ever find it.
The despairing survivors ran fuming with wrath back into the court-room. "Murder, murder," cried Zabváry as he rushed on Ráby. "I am a beggar, I have been robbed! Hang the murderer who has killed the notary."