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Updated: May 2, 2025
Nobody in the whole congregation knew or recognised me, except the Vice-Governor, and the fellow-student of whom I have spoken. But, of course, he kept at a distance. Presently my own name, "Dumany Kornel," was pronounced, and "Dead! Dead! Smrt!" was the shout of all around.
This was repeated a number of times, and behind me stood a Slav nobleman, who after each of these utterances of "Dead," added the Slavonic word "Smrt" a beautiful word, as bony as the spectre "death" itself.
'We can wait, is the Austrian parole; don't worry about them. To-morrow you will have the board of commissioners meet on your new premises, and put you in possession of your inheritance, so that you may be placed on the list of voters. This must not be postponed, for if you miss that you are dead indeed 'Smrt, as that honest Maticza champion said."
The Vice-Governor invited me to dinner, and just as we were pushing our way out of the hall, I heard the red-sashed priest and the Slav nobleman, who had always added his "Smrt" to the cry of "Dead!" speaking together in Slav, of which language they supposed me ignorant. The nobleman said to the priest "What folly it was of you to vex and excite this blockhead by pronouncing him dead!
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