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215 At the great banquet just as all were lifting their wine glasses to drink the health of the absent Paul Rediki, and the voices rang out: “Here’s to—!” a telegram came saying that Paul Rediki was dead. He died at exactly nine o’clock, the very moment when the train entered his village. So his soul went journeying away with it.

Outside a storm began to rage. It uprooted trees, unroofed houses, the lightning struck apart, like a sword of God, the great bell in the tower and destroyed one of the small station houses. The reapers of Paul Rediki saw bloody rain drops falling upon the grass. That’s what always happens when man tempts the mercy of God.

On the third day at three o'clock the burial was to take place. At half past two the coffin was to come on the train, and the services were to be conducted with pomp such as had never been seen before in Gernyefalva. Printed invitations had been sent to the gentry of the neighborhood. Nine reverend gentlemen of neighboring villages were there. The country roads as far as one could see were black with crawling wagons. Even the pupils from the Selmezlanya had been invited and were approaching in numbers. [sic]