The doctor he sent for, directly he saw his patient, exclaimed in horror, "This is the oriental plague," for he recognised the symptoms of the fell malady.
And that word at once drove every living soul away from the unhappy man, and he was left writhing in his agony behind the door till he was still, for that meant he was dead. Then they sent two condemned felons to wrap up the corpse in a horse-rug and carry it out into the cemetery there to be buried like a dog. The only thing they troubled after was as to whether enough quicklime had been thrown into the grave.
But Ráby lay half-dead on the cobble-stones. There were no other houses in the alley, save the monster barracks, the university hospital, and the great stone rampart of the hinder part of the Assembly House.
As a rule, only one person went up that alley every day, and that was an old Jew named Abraham. He was no longer bound by law to wear the red mantle, and could go about in his black gown and kaftan. With him was a red-haired boy, his youngest son, an intelligent lad who had excellent legs and could run with the best.
But Abraham left him at the corner of the alley and went alone to the little iron door.
There he was accustomed to wait each morning till a heyduke appeared. Then he would push a paper containing a piece of gold under the door, and receive in exchange another morsel of paper. This contained the latest news of Rab Ráby, and Abraham promptly gave it to the youngster waiting at the corner, who forthwith would run with it to Buda, where Mariska was waiting for it.
But on this particular morning, the Jew found no news of Ráby, but instead, the prisoner himself, lying on the stones, as one dead.
The old man raised no alarm, nor did he utter a word, but bending over the prostrate man, laid his hand on Ráby's heart to see if it yet beat.
When he had satisfied himself that Ráby was still alive, Abraham wrapped him up in his warm fur-lined mantle, took him in his arms, and carried him to the corner of the alley, where he and his son between them dragged him into a sedan-chair, and bore him off--whither no one knew!
A voice like the voice of the angels themselves (so it seemed to the half-conscious man who heard it) sweet as the song of the spheres and thrilling with some unwonted harmony which did not seem of this earth, recalled the stricken soul of Mathias Ráby back from the shadows of death where it yet lingered.