"Let us see him and speak with him."
"You cannot, he is much too bad; besides I have to fumigate the whole place on account of his illness."
"But what is his malady then?"
"That I cannot tell you; ask the doctor when he comes out."
And at that moment the cell-door opened and the doctor walked out, carrying a shovel on which some aromatic gum was burning, in one hand, and in the other a pocket-handkerchief soaked with spirits of lavender. He spoke to no one till he had washed his hands in a bowl of vinegar and water that a heyduke held for him, the commissioners looking on somewhat aghast at all these precautions. Ráby's malady must be something very contagious to demand them.
At last Plötzlich summoned up courage to ask what was the matter with the prisoner.
The doctor took a long inhalation of the lavender and then whispered to the official, nervously, "It's the oriental plague."
It was enough for the Viennese. They thought no more of the unfortunate man they were leaving behind them, but without more ado, hastened out of the infected building as fast as their legs could carry them, to take the fatal news back to Vienna. As for Ráby he was as good as dead and buried, as far as the world was concerned, for his death was a foregone conclusion.